


As You Wish

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: When Simon the Nox Knight is captured in Terrada and brought back home to Hellarium to face trial, he must pretend he is a servant in order to escape the unjust punishment for his supposed treason. As it turns out, the young Master Pitch is in need of a servant—at least, the Head of the High Council seems to think so—and Simon is the perfect man for the job. But if the rumours floating around about Basil Pitch are to be believed, he might be more than Simon bargained for.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 48
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no fic!
> 
> I'm back with my longest fic ever, and I had a blast writing it. Many thanks to [BazzyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle) and [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) for letting me blather on about this fic for the past two weeks, nonstop. And helping me come up with names for all the things!
> 
> Now, I'm not really a medieval fantasy aficionado. It should be pretty obvious from this fic that the only vaguely medieval stuff I’ve ever really played, read, or watched is just, like, Skyrim, The Witcher, Captive Prince, BBC’s Merlin, and of course, The Princess Bride. It’s not even that medieval, and definitely not historical, just vaguely not contemporary. So no nit-picking inaccuracies! It's not real!
> 
>  **A note of warning:** There is some description of violence/injury in some chapters, but nothing more graphic or extreme than canon. And there are scenes of a sexual nature that are also not graphic, but they are not fade-to-black either. By continuing to read, you are confirming that you are willing to read such things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden identities, cruel injustices, and a really uncomfortable pair of shoes.

When the first wave of soldiers hit, he wasn’t expecting it. He was not a soldier, he was not trained in such forms of battle, and furthermore, these were his own people.

When the first wave of soldiers captured him, he wasn’t expecting it.

Now, as Simon stands before the High Council of Hellarium to beg for his life, he thinks he should have expected it.

He’d heard about the coup back home, while he was abroad. He knew about the Royal Council—now the High Council—overthrowing the monarchy that had ruled his country for centuries. The High Council headed by the Mage, a man whom the Queen herself had appointed to advise her, and instead betrayed her.

And yet Simon is now the one being accused of treason.

_Following the Queen’s orders is treason now?_ he thinks to himself. It would almost be funny if his life weren’t at stake.

It wasn’t that Simon held the Queen in particularly high regards. She’d become corrupt, later in her reign, and even though she put an end to the centuries old conflict with Terrada, many of the people of Hellarium were struggling on a daily basis. The Mage promised an end to all of that, he promised a government for the people, not the monarchy.

Perhaps Simon should have left Terrada and returned home as soon as he’d heard, but it seemed dangerous to come back to Hellarium during a revolt, especially when his contract was not yet expired. He was just following orders. He was just trying to do the right thing.

The hall where the High Council is seated is large, but not extravagant. The eleven Council members sit around a curved table, raised up on a dais, with the Mage at the centre. Although he is Head of Council, he is supposed to be equal with the others—his vote holds the same weight as any other man or woman seated with him, in their identical chairs that lack much ornamentation. Nothing like the Queen’s throne. The Mage famously despises that kind of ostentatious display of excess, and it shows.

This is nothing like the last time Simon was at Mummers Palace.

When Simon is called forward in front of the Council, and asked to speak his name, he falters, only for a moment. The Mage looks at him with no recognition on his face. The man who selected him, who sent him to train and work in Terrada, years ago, is sitting here, asking Simon to state his identity, like he does not know it himself.

Perhaps he does not remember.

“Snow,” Simon answers, thinking this his only means of escaping execution. It’s his middle name, given to him by his mother, who died before he was old enough to remember her. It was all he had left of her, and it was his alone. He never used this name. Nobody would know it.

When he is then asked to speak his reason for being in Terrada, in a time of war, he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying that it wasn’t a time of war until only recently. He cannot say the real reason he was there. That he was sent to train with the Nox of Terrada, at the request of the late Queen of Hellarium. Or rather, at the request of the Mage himself, on behalf of the Queen.

“I worked for a trader,” he says. “I—He wasn’t aware of the war. The countries were at peace when we departed—”

“A trader?” the Mage says, stroking the hair at his chin. His beard does not exactly suit him, and makes him look like a much older man, but Simon thinks perhaps that is why he wears it this way. To give himself an air of aged wisdom. “What is his name?”

Simon gives them the name of a man from his home village, who’s been dead for nearly a decade. “He—He perished in the raids,” he says. He knows his lie will only hold up if no one has bothered to keep track of each prisoner, but Simon was stripped of all his personal items and herded around with a hundred others, passing under the stewardship of so many people along the way that there is very little chance they did keep track.

“You were his servant?”

Simon can tell the Mage is eyeing the large scar peeking out from Simon’s tunic, up the side of his neck. It’s long since healed, but it is not the sort of injury many servants would sustain in their daily duties. He briefly fears that the Mage now recognizes him by the scar; he was watching when Simon acquired it.

Nevertheless, Simon simply says, “Yes.”

The Mage considers him in silence for a long time, Simon’s fate stretching out thin before him, at the hands of the High Council. The other men and women on the Council watch him with expressions varying from pity to disdain, and Simon holds his breath when the Mage calls for a vote.

The Council members lean in to speak to one another, too quietly for Simon to hear, and then eight of them stand—including the Mage—while three remain seated. Simon doesn’t know what this means.

“It is decided, then,” the Mage says when they all sit once again. “Snow shall be released into the custody of the Council. He will act as a servant, here in the palace, and receive all the protections that that entails.”

Simon stops himself from asking, _‘What protections?’_

The Mage looks over at one of the other Council members—one of the men who did not stand. “Your son has struggled to find suitable assistance, has he not, Malcolm?”

Malcolm glances at Simon in appraisal. His face is all harsh lines and steel, accentuated by the iciness of his white hair, although the contemptuous look in his eye belies his placid demeanour. “My son is very stubborn,” he says to the Mage. “I’m not sure he would take him.”

“I believe he will if you insist upon it,” the Mage says, his expression taking on a fierce glint, as though he is daring Malcolm to defy him.

Malcolm doesn’t rise to the bait. “I suppose you are right,” he says, and then looks back at Simon with disgust. “Get him some clean clothes first. He cannot face my son like that.”

* * *

“How long do you think this one’ll last?”

The armed men escorting Simon laugh and nudge him to hurry him along. Everyone so far who has heard that Simon was going to serve Malcolm’s oldest son— _Basil_ —has laughed. Or cringed.

“Most people request to be appointed elsewhere within a matter of days,” said the young woman who had brought Simon fresh clothes to change into. “They say he’s got a horrible temperament.”

She quieted soon afterwards, seemingly ashamed for talking about the son of a a prominent family like that, but a few of the others who were within earshot joined in. Everyone seemed to have a theory about the mysterious Basil Pitch, and they varied substantially in credibility: He’ll tell his servants to scrub the floor after they’ve just scrubbed it—that one could be true. But he’s a vampire and has hypnotized his servants not to reveal his secret? A bit less likely.

Once Simon was cleaned up and dressed in clothes that he had not been wearing for over a week, the guards showed up to take him to Basil’s rooms. As though people thought Simon would try to escape.

Well, he would if he thought he could get away with it.

The second guard looks sideways at Simon before answering the question. “I’d give him a week,” he says. “Though he looks more likely to punch the son of a bitch out than run off crying.”

“You never know, the son of a bitch might enjoy that,” says the first, and they both laugh again.

Simon doesn’t ask what he means by that. He doesn’t speak to them at all—he doesn’t really enjoy being treated like a prisoner when he’s supposedly been “freed.” And while he is no longer being marched to his death with his hands tied behind his back, the blades at these men’s hips send a pretty clear message.

“Maybe he’ll keep this one around for a while,” the second guard says, giving Simon another once over, “if what they say about his _proclivities_ are true.”

They lead Simon up a twisting staircase, towards the top of one of the towers of Mummers Palace. The constant turning—combined with the hunger in his stomach that hasn’t been truly sated since his capture—is making him dizzy. They stop when they reach the top of the stairs, in front of a door with a single guard standing outside. He seems to be trying to contain a smirk when he takes a look at Simon.

Simon restrains himself from lashing out at their mockery. He cannot see why his appearance should be that amusing. He’s wearing the clothes he was given, the same as any other servant here. Granted, they’re not even as nice as the clothes he’s used to—they’re a bit itchy, and snug across the shoulders—but they’re a definite improvement from the grimy, sweat-stale garments he arrived in.

“You good in a fight?” the guard at the door asks him, and Simon realizes he’s noticed the scar as well.

“Maybe,” Simon replies stiffly. He is not here to have a chat.

“The Mage selected him personally,” says one of the men escorting Simon.

The guard at the door looks mildly amused, and then gives them the nod to go ahead inside. “This should be fun.”

One of the men with him gives Simon a shove in the shoulder to get him moving again as the other opens the door. Simon looks around when they walk in, somewhat surprised by the decor. In stark contrast to the Council Hall, with its minimal ornamentation and sparse accents of emerald green, this room is dark and full of intricately detailed furnishings. Rich wood carvings adorn every chair, every table, every bedpost. Black and red silks are draped over the bed, at the far side of the room, and a plush bench sits near it, where a man about his age appears to be reading. It seems strange, considering how dark it is in here, yet there he is, with one leg crossed over the other and a book balanced on his knee.

Basil Pitch, no doubt.

Basil doesn’t seem surprised to see them, but neither does he seem pleased. “Brought me a gift, have you?” he says to the men flanking Simon. He gives Simon an appraising look, and sneers. “It’s not even my birthday.”

“The Mage says you need a new servant,” one of the guards says.

“I don’t need anyone,” Basil says, returning his attention to his book. “I’m perfectly capable of attending to myself.”

“Your father insists.”

Simon can see the muscle in Basil’s jaw working. “My father…” Basil says, and then snaps his book shut and stands. “Where’d this one come from, then?”

“Not sure. Could have been one of the new prisoners.”

Basil walks over to inspect Simon more closely. Simon can see some of the family resemblance with Malcolm; the severe widow’s peak, the strong angles of the face, the overall air of superiority. His hair is black as tar, though, and longer, nearly reaching his shoulders. He’s wearing a jacket made of black embroidered silk that looks more expensive than every item of clothing that Simon has ever owned, combined.

Simon can feel his ears get hot as Basil sizes him up, suddenly self-conscious about the ill-fitting clothes and his wild, overgrown curls. It didn’t fully register for him until this moment that he will most likely feel this way every day for the foreseeable future. Inferior. Weak. Powerless.

“My father brought me a traitor?” Basil says, amused, as he stares Simon down.

“I’m not a traitor!” Simon snaps, though when he jerks forward, as if to lunge at Basil, the guards hold him back.

“Ah, he speaks.”

“I can do a lot more than speak, mate.” Simon knows it’s probably not wise to threaten a Council member’s son, but everything about Basil makes Simon want to punch him in the face. Perhaps the guard was right.

Basil smiles dryly and then looks at the man to Simon’s left. “Are you sure there hasn’t been some mix-up? He seems like a common thug.”

“We were just told to bring him to you,” the man says. “You can take it up with the Council.”

The guards let Simon go, now that he’s settled a bit, and Basil sighs. “Leave him, then,” he says, dismissing them with a wave.

One of the guards pats Simon on the shoulder and leans in to mutter, “Good luck,” before they leave.

For the first time since the verdict on Simon’s life, Simon is afraid. He’s fairly certain he could take Basil in a fight—he’s taller than Simon, but Simon has got the advantage in bulk, not to mention the training—yet that only worries him more. Basil has glimpsed a sliver of Simon’s hot temper, and still has no qualms about being left alone with him. Which makes Simon believe there is something else going on.

If those vampire rumours are to be believed…

Simon is trained for dealing with vampires, of course. He had nearly finished his apprenticeship with the Nox in Terrada, some of the most skilled in the world, and was meant to return to Hellarium at the end of his contract and take up his new role here, officially. A Nox Knight, tasked with keeping the country and its people safe from the monsters and evil creatures that roam about. He’s a trained and specialized fighter, in normal circumstances; he should be able to handle a vampire.

But Simon doesn’t have his sword anymore, and there’s very little in the room that could be used as a weapon to defend himself—nothing that he could reach quick enough if Basil were to attack, anyway. He has his fire spells, but not all vampires are susceptible to fire, and Simon can’t risk a miscalculation when it comes to that or he’ll send the whole tower up in flames.

“You seem nervous,” Basil says once the guards have gone, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not nervous,” Simon replies, keeping his voice steady.

“Have you got a name, then?”

“Snow.”

Basil runs his tongue along his teeth pensively as he looks Simon over once more. “Snow,” he says, and then walks over to the nearby table, with the remnants of his dinner. He pours more wine into his goblet and takes a long sip. “Clean this up.”

Simon swallows his pride and walks over to start loading plates onto the serving tray, but Basil drops his goblet to the floor with a loud clang of metal hitting wood. Red wine splashes out and spills onto the dark floor, pooling around Simon’s feet.

“That, too,” Basil says, but he’s walking away before Simon can stammer a response. “And tend to the fireplace, will you? It is sure to die out soon.”

Simon watches in disbelief as Basil takes a heavy cloak from the large wooden cupboard and drapes it over his shoulders, like he intends to walk out and leave Simon to deal with this mess on his own.

“Where are you going?” Simon demands, but Basil doesn’t even look at him.

“I’ll be back within the hour,” Basil says as he heads to the door. “I expect this mess cleaned up and my bath drawn by then, Snow.”

“But—But—”

Basil turns back to Simon once he reaches the door and eyes him disdainfully. “And, for the love of any gods you so choose, find some clothing that actually fits properly.”

* * *

“Oh! I’m sorry, I thought—” Simon turns away quickly when he walks into Basil’s rooms to find him still getting dressed.

“I am fully covered, Snow, no need to get excited,” Basil says, fastening the top buttons of his black, high-collared shirt. He tugs on his fitted sleeves to straighten them and then extends one arm towards the chair closest to him, where a black and red embroidered jacket is draped. “Bring that here.”

“Bring that—But it’s right there!” Simon argues, though the look Basil levels at him tells him that is not the point. He is going to make Simon do it, just because he can.

Simon was exhausted when he got to his room in the servants’ quarters last night. It had been a long day, granted, but the few hours he spent in Basil’s presence were enough to nearly drain the will to live right out of him. It was not that they were gruelling so much as _tedious_.

He was not looking forward to returning this morning, but he didn’t see much of a choice in the matter. Upper Watford, which mainly consists of Mummers Palace and the homes of other high-status citizens of Hellarium, is closed off from the rest of the city while the nation is still settling into its new leadership. Only certain people are allowed in and out of the gates. Simon doubts that he is one of them.

Simon huffs and stomps over to Basil, picking up the jacket—without any care for the fine fabric or how it may snag on the wooden chair—and holding it out to him at arm’s length. “Well, here you go,” he says, giving the jacket a shake when Basil just stares at him. “You said you wanted this.”

“It does not do me much good in your hand, does it?” Basil says, looking down his nose at Simon.

“Then _take it_ , you unbearable—”

“Snow,” he cuts in sharply. “I would be more careful about how I choose to address my superiors, if I were you.”

Simon resists the urge to say, _‘You’re not my superior,’_ and instead simply pouts. He’s about ready to pull his hair out in frustration, however, until Basil opens his arms at his sides impatiently, and Simon takes the hint.

“What happened to you being perfectly capable of attending to yourself?” he grumbles as he steps behind Basil to help him slip his jacket on.

Basil tugs on the front of the jacket to make sure it’s even before fastening it down to his waist. “I am perfectly capable,” he says. “But you’re here now, so I might as well use you.”

Simon clenches his jaw and bites back another remark. “And what shall I do for you today, _Basil_?” he says, seething. “Scrub your floors again? Polish your doorknobs? Peel a thousand grapes?”

“Hm, another time, perhaps,” Basil says, picking a nonexistent speck of dust off his shoulder. “By the way,” he adds, locking eyes with Simon in a way that makes fear creep up Simon’s spine, yet again, “I will not have you speaking to me with such familiarity. You may address me as Master Pitch or, better yet, not speak at all.”

Basil brushes past Simon, and stops when he reaches the door. “Well?” he says when Simon hasn’t made a move to follow. “Will you be joining me any time soon?”

“Joining you where?” Simon asks hesitantly. “I—I thought I was supposed to… stay here.”

“You think you’re only employed to serve me in my rooms?” Basil says with an eyebrow raised, mockingly.

“No—I only thought—I mean—I didn’t know what—”

“Come along, Snow,” he says as he pulls the door open. “You can carry on with your blustering while we walk.”

Simon does not carry on with his blustering.

He follows Basil down various corridors and around corners, until he is completely lost, and Basil stops in front of a large set of doors, with guards flanking either side.

“Is my father in?” he asks one of them, who nods and opens the door for him. Simon is about to follow him inside as well, but Basil turns to face him abruptly and tells him to wait out here.

“What, I have to just stand here?” Simon asks. “For how long?”

Basil doesn’t answer, and Simon is left to wait for what feels like hours, although he cannot tell for certain. Too long, at the very least. When Basil does finally emerge, it is clear he is in a foul mood, and he breezes right past Simon before snapping at him to keep up.

Simon struggles to keep up with Basil’s long stride, however, as he once again follows him through the palace on a route that Simon would never be able to retrace. They cut through the courtyard so quickly that he does not even have a chance to take in how much has changed since the last time he was here.

“Snow,” Basil says once they’re indoors again, stopping and turning around suddenly. Simon nearly crashes into him. “My shoes are dirty now.”

Simon looks down at Basil’s feet. He can just barely make out the faint swath of dust across the toe of one of the shoes. “So?”

“So, _clean them_.”

“What, now?” Simon asks incredulously. “We’re standing in the middle of a busy corridor! And I haven’t even got a cloth!”

“Use the hem of your tunic, for all I care,” says Basil, giving him an icy stare. “Your clothes are no better than a rag, anyhow.”

“Bas— _Master Pitch_ ,” Simon says, straining to keep himself from raising his voice in anger, “would it not be more wise to wait until we are back in your rooms, so that you can remove them and I can clean them properly?”

“Wisdom has nothing to do with it, Snow. I, unlike you, cannot afford to walk around looking like a disgrace.”

Simon opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but the look on Basil’s face tells him he’s already lost this one.

* * *

After a week of serving Basil, Simon is nearly willing to admit his true identity to the High Council. Perhaps they would take mercy on him, after what he’s had to endure. Attending to every sadistic whim of the Pitch boy has been punishment enough for Simon’s supposed “crimes,” surely.

Realistically, he knows that working for Basil is better than being executed as a traitor—marginally—but it does not make him any less infuriated with every humiliating demand on him, each one more absurd than the last.

“You want me to… wear your shoes?” Simon asks slowly. He looks down at the dark leather shoes Basil pointed out, sitting next to the cupboard, as he tries to wrap his head around the request.

“To break them in, yes,” Basil says. “I’ve just had them made and the leather is still a bit stiff. My feet will blister if I wear them now.”

“But I—I can’t _wear your shoes_ ,” Simon replies, trying to emphasize the ridiculousness of that statement.

“Why not?”

“Because! Because they’re—” _Gaudy_ , Simon thinks. Or at least they would be on him.

It’s not that the shoes are hideous. On the contrary, they are rather exquisitely detailed, with finely tooled leather and intricate laces and a severe point at the toe. They look expensive and impractical, as though the only purpose of wearing them is to show off how expensive and impractical they are. They would merely seem decadent on Basil.

They would make Simon look like a tit.

“I expect you to wear them until the leather has relaxed,” Basil adds, when it seems Simon cannot finish his sentence. “But if you so much as scuff them, I can assure you, you will regret it.”

“I don’t see how this is fair.”

“Fair?” Basil laughs mockingly. “Who said anything about _fair_? It’s not fair that I have an incompetent lout serving me, but we all must weather cruel injustices.”

Simon wants to argue, but Basil is watching him expectantly, and he knows better than to think Basil is just going to give this up. He grumbles as he pulls off his own shoes and sits on the floor to try and get the new ones on. It takes him longer than it should to figure out the laces and open them, and once he gets his foot in one, he realizes a major flaw to Basil’s plan.

“They’re too small,” he says. He can’t move his toes at all.

“It’s not my fault your oversized earth-stompers don’t fit,” Basil says. “Sort it out yourself.”

“But—”

“For the gods’ sake, Snow, they’re just a bit snug. Quit your bellyaching.”

The shoes fit enough that Simon can get them on, at least, and even secure the laces—although he has to lace them wider than they were intended. But they are, as Basil said, _snug_ , and Simon expects he will lose feeling in his feet within an hour.

“Good, then,” Basil says when Simon hesitantly stands. “Do ten rounds of the palace and report back.”

“ _Ten rounds?_ ” That will take the better part of a day, Simon thinks.

“And make it quick. I have more for you to do when you get back.”

It’s not as terrible as Simon feared it would be, once he starts walking. The leather is stiff, yes, but the weight of him pushing down on it makes it give a little more than he expected. The shoes are by no means comfortable, but he might be able to get at least a couple rounds in.

He’s nearly half way around the palace when he bumps into her. Penelope.

Simon met her earlier in the week, when he watched her and Basil get into a very intense philosophical debate. At one point, Simon worried things would come to blows when the argument got rather heated, but barely a minute later, the two of them were laughing and shaking hands. Simon wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She’s just leaving the library when Simon, quite literally, bumps into her.

“Shit! Sorry! I’m—Sorry!” he says as he tries to regain his footing, steadying her by the shoulders as well to keep her from toppling. He quickly lets go and tucks his hands behind his back sheepishly.

“I didn’t look where I was going,” Penelope says with a laugh, but stops when she takes a look at him, and recognition spreads across her face. “You’re Basil’s new servant. Snow, right?”

“Yes,” Simon says with a small nod. “Once again, my sincerest apologies for—”

“Oh, it’s fine.” She waves her hand dismissively. “What are you up to, then? Basil giving you a day off?”

“Er, not exactly.” He looks down at his feet, and promptly wishes he hadn’t, because Penelope looks down as well.

“Those are…”

“I’m breaking in the leather for him,” he says. Penelope snorts. “Well, it’s not as though I have much choice, do I?”

“No, no, of course,” she says. “It is amusing, though.”

“Less so, for me.”

She looks up and smiles apologetically. “You’re right, I’m sorry. He’s… He likes to be… difficult, sometimes.”

Simon could easily expand on that, listing all the ways in which Basil is _difficult_ , but he holds his tongue. He does not know if he can trust Penelope not to tell Basil anything he says.

“I should keep walking,” he adds quietly.

“Would you like some company?”

Simon’s not sure if this is allowed. If he’s allowed to walk and chat with a Council member’s daughter for whom he does not work, as if they are friends. They cannot be friends; he is a servant. But he lets her walk with him, nonetheless. He wouldn’t mind the company, quite honestly.

Penelope is rather blunt and forthcoming, Simon finds, and she gladly gives him a tour of the palace, complete with historical accounts of every portrait and archway and rosebush they come across. Simon doesn’t know how one person can hold this much information.

By their second round of the palace, however, Simon nearly falls over when his feet refuse to move in accordance with his will. Penelope makes them sit on a—historically significant—bench so he can rest.

“I’m sorry that Basil is treating you this way,” she says, her face pinched with sympathy. “He’s not a bad person, not really, but he—He has some anger, and he should not be directing it at you.”

Simon scoffs. He is too drained for proper manners at the moment. “And where should he be directing it?”

“I don’t know… He’s always been fairly combative when it comes to the Mage. Probably because of his mother,” she says. “The Mage is the one who insists on Basil having a servant, so he’s… not always kind to them. He shouldn’t behave that way, I know.”

He contemplates this for a moment, and then asks, “Because of his mother?”

She frowns at him. “Natasha Pitch. She was—”

“The Queen’s advisor,” Simon cuts in, as realization dawns on him. Basil Pitch is Natasha’s son. It should have been obvious.

Simon never knew much about Natasha. He didn’t grow up in Watford, but he heard news from the capital from time to time in his village. And the death of Natasha Pitch, the Queen’s most trusted advisor and Head of the Royal Council, was a shock to the entire nation. Not the fact that she died, so much, but the way it happened. Vampires attacking the palace—the first security breach of that scale in hundreds of years—and Natasha sent herself up in flames, taking most of the vampires with her.

Simon was a child when it happened, twenty years ago, but people would still talk about it. They would talk about her fierce loyalty—and then, in more hushed tones, how they weren’t sure about the new advisor. How the Queen seemed to grow more cruel with age, after Natasha passed. And how vampires and evil creatures had to be eradicated at any cost.

The country needed Nox Knights, now more than ever, and Simon dreamed of being one of them since he was old enough to swing a wooden sword.

“Basil’s always resented the Mage for taking his mother’s place,” Penelope says. “And I think he now resents his father for siding with the Mage against the Queen… Not that he was fond of her or who she’d become towards the end, but… I think he has a lot of anger and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“And I get to be the one to bear it,” Simon says with a sarcastic smile. “Lucky me.”

Penelope places her hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Snow, truly,” she says. “Would you like me to speak to him? I might be able to get him to ease up.”

He shakes his head. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I wouldn’t want him to direct his anger at you, as well.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

Simon worries that perhaps she should be.

“I… I should keep walking,” he says, rising to his feet tentatively. “Thank you for the company, Penelope.”

Penelope stands and nods, with her hand on his shoulder again. “It was lovely to see you, Snow.”

* * *

“Your dinner, as you requested it, Master Pitch,” Simon says with a scornful tone as he places a tray of food on the table in Basil’s rooms.

“Took you long enough,” Basil says, swiftly closing the book he was reading before striding over. “It had better not be cold.”

“I brought it as quickly as I could,” Simon grumbles, fidgeting as he adjusts the neckline of his tunic. Basil made Simon get new clothes the other day, and while these ones do fit better than his old ones, the material chafes him from time to time, and the belt at his waist inhibits his range of motion.

The worst part of getting this tunic, however, was that the very day Basil procured it for him, he made Simon remove it in order to move a large decorative urn back and forth across the courtyard. Basil said he did not like the placement of it, and had Simon move it to several locations before deciding to have it placed almost in the same spot it came from. He would not allow Simon to ruin his new garment, though, so Simon had to push and drag and lift a hunk of stone that weighed nearly as much as he did, half naked, in front of everyone in the courtyard.

He got whistles and taunting remarks thrown at him while he worked up a sweat in the midday sun, doing Basil’s grunt work, while Basil sat under a canopy and read a book. As though he did not care what Simon was doing, so long as Simon was humiliated. He would look up on occasion to tell Simon where to move the urn next, and then resume reading.

“I would’ve thought he’d enjoy watching this,” Simon had overheard someone say about Basil, with a snicker.

Basil eyes Simon with distaste now and takes a seat in front of his meal.

Simon knows enough to busy himself with other things when Basil eats; Basil hates being watched. Simon checks on the fireplace to give Basil his privacy, but he hears a plate scrape across the table almost right away.

“Snow,” Basil says impatiently, and Simon returns to his side. “It is too cold.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Take it back and bring me another.” He pushes the plate further away from him and then glares up at Simon. “Now, Snow.”

“I can’t just _bring you another_ ,” Simon tells him. “The kitchen makes up the servings, it’s not my fault if it’s cold by the time it gets here!”

“If you didn’t take your merry time returning to me, it wouldn’t be cold,” Basil says evenly.

“I’m not the one who put the kitchens on the other side of the bloody palace—”

“Perhaps if you had properly checked the temperature before bringing it to me, you would have been able to tell that it would be cold by the time it arrived.”

“I have to test all your food for you, now?” Simon asks, gesturing wide with his arm. “Do you want me to chew it for you, as well?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Basil adjusts the cuffs of his jacket and stands. “Just clean that up.”

Simon looks down at the barely touched meal on the table and then over at Basil as he walks towards his reading bench. “Why don’t you dine with other people?” Simon asks, though he hates the way that he sounds sincerely concerned when he says it. “If you ate in the hall with the others, you’d be closer to the kitchen—”

“I see no need to make inane conversation with people who think themselves my _peers_ while I’m trying to eat,” Basil says, turning to face Simon again.

“I just—What about your family?”

Basil scowls. “What _about_ my family?”

“Would you not enjoy seeing them at dinner?” Simon asks. “I know you have siblings and—”

“You need not concern yourself with my family, Snow.” Basil turns abruptly and walks over to the shelf to pick out another book.

“I thought you liked your family. The other day, when you were—”

Basil slams the book back on the shelf and strides back over to Simon, with a gracefulness that Simon can’t even fathom, considering the anger seething within him. “You know nothing about me or my family, Snow,” he says, his words cutting sharp lines between them.

Simon doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t know what there is to say, as he watches Basil gather his cloak from the cupboard and storm out.

The door slams shut, and Simon realizes he’s not been left with any instructions. He knows not to follow Basil when he goes out in the evenings—during the day, Simon is expected to stay at Basil’s side and tend to his every whim, but Basil takes his evening walks alone.

Aside from Simon following him around, and the occasional conversation with a small handful of people who might be considered his _friends_ —in a pinch—Basil spends most of his time alone. And Simon gets the impression he prefers it that way.

He cannot understand why Basil insists on being so reclusive and ornery all the time. If it were not for his personality, Basil could be quite popular around here. Everyone is always talking about him, in any case. And perhaps the things they say would be more complimentary if he were a little nicer.

Not that he never gets compliments. The young women in the palace are always giggling and blushing when he walks by, and he hardly pays them any notice. He’s handsome—and he knows it, of course.

It is unfair, Simon thinks, while loading Basil’s full dinner plates back on the tray. Basil gets offered anything he could possibly want, and then acts as though he wants none of it. Simon would love to have young women giggling for his attention again—although sometimes they do giggle at him, he suspects it is for different reasons—or to have such an array of food available to him on a daily basis, or even a family to dine with…

Simon has seen Basil’s siblings and step-mother a few times. They do not really look like him and Malcolm; their faces are rounder—softer—and their hair is less striking, which gives them the overall appearance of being… nice. Even if the twins might actually be demons disguised as ten-year-old girls. The most surprising thing about Basil’s family, though, is the way he is with them.

One of the only times Simon has seen Basil smile—really, properly smile—was when his young brother tried to recite a dirty limerick one of the older children had taught him, even though he had no idea what it meant. Basil even laughed. Not out of mockery or contempt, it seemed, but joy.

Simon wasn’t really supposed to see that.

Basil was sitting under a canopy in the courtyard, watching his brother run around in circles and show off to him, while Simon was meant to be pruning a rosebush that the Queen had had planted to honour Natasha’s death. Basil likes to make sure it gets tended to—even if Simon is the one who has to do the tending. It would be sweet, if it weren’t on Simon’s shoulders.

But Simon was taking a break, leaning against a ledge in the garden, just out of Basil’s line of sight, since he was focused on his brother. If Simon had not known any better, he might have mistaken Basil for a lovely person. From a distance. He could almost pass as one, when he’s not trying to be a sadistic monster.

Simon glares at the uneaten food on the table in front of him; he cannot reconcile the man he works for with a man who loves his family, or anyone. How can someone so cold have a beating heart? It makes no sense.

He’s not sure if it is the rumbling in his stomach or the ache in his chest, but Simon picks up a piece of bread and bites into it, out of spite. He finishes off the bread and washes it down with some wine before eyeing the plate for other morsels he can scavenge. Basil said the food was too cold, but Simon is not sure he is all that picky right now, so he grabs a drumstick.

It must be the one Basil tried to eat, he realizes, because there is a bite mark in it.

A bite mark with the indentations of two extra teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting, stalking, and unnatural tendencies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene of a sexual nature. Nothing in this fic is really explicit, but keep this in mind if you choose to proceed.

“How is the food?” Simon asks, trying not to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stands next to Basil’s table in anticipation.

Basil glances up at him pointedly. “As you can see, I have not had a chance to eat any of it yet.”

“Right, yeah, but I was thinking you could have a bite and let me know if I need to take it back,” Simon adds. “Wouldn’t want it to be too cold for you.”

“Your thoughtfulness is truly touching, Snow,” Basil says, his voice dripping with insincerity. “But you know I prefer not to be _studied_ while I attempt to enjoy my dinner.”

Simon straightens his back; he did not realize he’s been leaning in to get a better look at Basil’s face. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll prepare your bed for the night, then.”

“I think you’ve fussed with my bed enough for today,” Basil snaps when Simon leaves his side. Simon freezes.

He doesn’t know how Basil could tell that Simon had been tearing apart his bed before. Simon thought he had tidied it so well when he was done. He couldn’t even find any of Basil’s hairs, in any case, so it turned out to be a fruitless endeavour. There’s a test that Simon knows that would tell him if Basil could be a vampire, simply by lighting a strand of his hair on fire and casting a rather basic spell. It was a bit desperate, but Simon needed answers.

He had not seriously bought into the whole _Basil is a vampire_ rumour, not after his first day with him and he realized Basil was merely an entitled prick. But the bite mark he saw the other night gave those evanescent rumours a bit more weight.

It is not as though Simon can just _kill_ Basil. Simon is not currently a Nox Knight, not officially. And Basil is not a contract. All Simon can do now is find proof—undeniable proof—that Basil is a vampire. That, along with being an entitled prick, he’s an evil monster. With proof, he can take his case to the High Council, and they can decide Basil’s fate.

Simon doesn’t want it to be true, not really. He may despise Basil and think him a horrible man, but that’s what he is. A man. To accuse him of being anything else is a leap that Simon is not willing to take until he is absolutely certain what waits for him on the other side. He must rid his mind of doubt, one way or the other, before taking action. He must find undeniable proof that Basil is a vampire or, barring that, accept that Basil is just a man. A horrible man, but a man nonetheless.

“Fetch me some more wine,” Basil says. He has not even begun to make a move for his food yet.

“But your goblet is still full,” Simon says, forcing his words through his teeth.

Basil picks up his goblet and makes show of taking a long drink from it. “It won’t be by the time you get back, if you don’t pick up the pace.”

Simon exhales slowly to subdue his frustration. “As you wish, Master Pitch.”

He all but stomps out the door and makes his way to the kitchens quickly, even though he knows there is no point. Basil will have finished eating by the time Simon returns—he is a light eater—and Simon will not have the chance to watch him. To see if his mouth gets fuller when he is about to eat, crowded with extra teeth. To see if his fangs peek out when he takes a bite of his meal.

The fact that Basil is so private about the way he eats, it certainly does not quell Simon’s suspicions. But he could just be a very private person; Simon can believe that. Keeps people at a distance so they don’t realize _just how much_ of an entitled prick he is.

Or—as Simon has started to wonder, fleetingly, at certain moments over the past couple of weeks—so that people don’t realize he might be vulnerably _human_.

* * *

The weather is lovely, Simon notes, and he is almost grateful that he gets to spend some of the day outside. Even if he is made to simply stand next to Basil and wait for further demands. Simon feels a bit like a dog—only a dog would be allowed to sit.

There is plenty of room on the bench next to Basil; there is no reason to make Simon stand except to degrade him. Simon knows this, but at the moment, he does not care. Because standing here has given him a potentially brilliant idea.

The canopy above Basil is stretched across the top of two frames, standing tall at either side of the bench. There is enough room for Simon to stand between the bench and the frame, shielding him from the harsh summer sun, as well. The canvas cloth is held taut with ropes around each frame, and if Simon angles himself just so, he can work at untying one of the ropes behind his back, without Basil seeing what he is doing.

He works slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, as he loosens the series of knots holding the canopy in place. The final knot unravels in his hand, and the canopy starts to slip—and he sees that he may have made a miscalculation. He holds onto the rope to keep it from slipping further, but the movement has already given him away. If he lets go now, the canopy will come crashing down into Basil’s face, since he’s now glaring up at Snow with suspicion.

“Would you care to tell me what in the gods’ names you are doing, Snow?” he says, eyeing Simon up and down. Undoubtedly, he can see the way Simon’s arm is starting to shake as he tries to hold up the canopy from this uncomfortable angle.

“Er, nothing,” he says, unconvincingly.

Simon tries to adjust his grip on the rope behind his back, but it slips even further and burns his hand, and he lets go with a start. He reacts before he can think about it; all he knows is that he will surely be executed—or worse—if the canopy collapses onto Basil’s head. He lunges forward, grabbing Basil by the shoulder and pushing him out of the way, right before the canopy crumples heavily onto the bench.

Basil manages to gain his footing quickly, instead of landing face down in the dirt, and stares at Simon, bewildered. Simon has never seen anything take Basil by surprise like that before. He nearly feels bad about it.

“What was that?” Basil hisses at him. “Were you trying to _kill_ me with a _canopy_?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “It wouldn’t have killed you,” he says. “And I pushed you out of the way, didn’t I?”

Basil is livid as he shoves Simon’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t ever touch me,” he snaps.

“I was trying to help you!” Simon argues. “The ropes—they were loose! I was trying to hold—”

“You expect me to believe this was an accident?”

People have started to gather around them—the commotion was bound to grab some attention. Another miscalculation on Simon’s part.

“Listen, I was just—” Simon says, but when he takes a small step toward Basil so he can keep his voice down, Basil takes a large step back.

“Clean this up,” Basil says to him, his voice calm but firm, as though he had not just been ruffled a moment ago. He turns around and the crowd parts for him as he heads back inside.

Simon stands in the middle of it all, a huge wave of embarrassment crashing over him, before facing the bench to start picking up the fallen canvas. He’s not entirely sure how to put it back together, and the hushed voices and conversations around him are not helping him think.

 _“I would have let it hit him,”_ some bystander mutters.

 _“Was it really an accident?”_ says another.

 _“What were they even doing under there?”_ And another.

 _“You know his tendencies… They’re unnatural.”_ More and more voices. Whispers, bouncing around the courtyard.

Simon tries to tune them all out and focus on repairing the canopy. Eventually they all trickle away. It is not until he is finished, though, that he realizes his biggest mistake.

He forgot to check if Basil’s skin was burning in the sunlight.

* * *

Basil’s demands on Simon grew more gruelling and outlandish, after the incident with the canopy. Simon was worked down to the bone over the course of the week, attending to Basil’s ridiculous requests. It was clear he was punishing Simon for stepping out of line, but that did not stop Simon from stepping out even further.

Simon still needed proof, one way or another, of Basil’s true nature, and he figured Basil’s evening walks might hold the answer. Perhaps Basil snuck off to Lower Watford to feed on commoners’ blood every night, Simon thought. If he caught Basil doing so, however, Simon felt it his duty to kill him on the spot. Nox Knights were meant to be bound by honour, but this job was always so much more to Simon. It was about protecting people, defending the innocent. Destroying monsters.

If Basil was a monster, Simon would have to destroy him.

He waited until Basil took his cloak and left before cautiously following him, every evening for a week. Simon would take Basil’s dinner tray with him, under the guise of returning to the kitchens, but as soon as no one was looking, he would stash it behind some plinth or another—usually with the bust of an ancient philosopher or something of the sort—and continue on Basil’s tail.

Simon usually lost track of him by the third or fourth turn.

This time, however, Simon is prepared. He does not bother stashing the dinner tray, since Basil seems to always head in the direction of the kitchens. This means he does not lose time trying to find a place to hide it, and has an excuse should Basil turn around and catch him. Simon makes bolder moves, under this new strategy, and manages not to lose track of Basil until he veers off away from the kitchens and down a corridor Simon has never been down.

He has seen this corridor in passing, when Penelope gave him a tour of the palace while he was breaking in Basil’s new shoes—which he has only seen Basil wear once, so far—but she did not take him down it because it leads only to one place: the catacombs.

Anyone of importance in Mummers Palace, and even Upper Watford, is entombed there when they die—Simon, clearly, would not be—and Simon has dealt with enough ghosts and Thantasma and monsters of decay to avoid such places whenever he can. But if Basil disappeared down this way, it’s the only place for him to go.

Simon is not sure why a vampire would have any interest in the already-deceased, since vampires survive by taking the _life_ of others themselves, but it makes him no less suspicious. He finds a place to tuck the dinner tray now as he heads down the corridor. It is darker than most others in the palace, with fewer torches lining the walls, which makes Simon feel a little more confident about not getting caught. Although there are no other people around to conceal himself behind, there are plenty of shadows he could duck into, if need be.

When he reaches the end of the corridor, he is met with a large, heavy door, carved with the symbols of the gods. The capital of Hellarium is no longer a particularly spiritual place, and most things here are treated in a secular manner, but honouring the dead is still sacred.

Old wives’ tales might have Simon believe that this alone proves Basil’s humanity, for it is widely thought that vampires cannot survive in spaces protected by the gods. Simon, however, knows this is a myth. He once knew a Nox who had taken down a vampire that was posing as a Holy Shepherd of Ydon, who set foot in sacred spaces every day without consequences.

Simon pats down his chest until he feels his pendant under his shirt, and presses it into his skin. The religious symbol of the pendant itself is of little use to him, but the properties of the herbs he wrapped around it—in combination with the spell he cast to bind them together—make it a decent ward against most types of evil creatures. If Basil is a vampire, it should protect Simon long enough to escape.

With that, Simon pushes the door open, slowly, and creeps down the stairs into the catacombs.

It is even darker down here than in the corridor above, with torches lit so far apart they leave dark gaps between them, but it is enough for Simon to make his way through the antechamber. Narrow corridors spread out from every wall of the main chamber when he walks in, although they are too dark for Simon to see where they lead. All he knows is that Basil is nowhere to be found.

Simon is careful to make as little noise as possible as he crosses the room to inspect one of the darkened paths. He’s hoping to find some hint, a flicker of light at the end, to indicate someone may be lurking through one of them, but they are all pitch black.

It’s possible, Simon thinks, that Basil does not need light to navigate these chambers, if he really is a vampire. But unless there is a living person down here for him to feed on, there is no sense in him even being here.

So much of Basil makes no sense to Simon.

He peers into the darkness of the next corridor before he hears the scuff of a pebble skidding across the uneven floor.

“Are you lost?”

Simon turns around to see Basil striding over to him calmly. His characteristic arrogant indifference is visible on his face, even in this dim light.

“What are you doing down here?” Simon asks. His tone is accusatory, but he cannot hide the nervous edge in his voice.

“Hmm, peculiar,” Basil says, stopping right in front of him. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Simon takes a step back. “I asked you first,” he says. He takes another step back but hits the wall behind him, and Basil closes the distance between them until he is staring down his nose at Simon.

“Tell me, Snow,” Basil says, pressing his hand against the wall next to Simon’s head, “can you read?”

“Can I—Yes, I can read!” Simon replies indignantly, though he has no idea where this is coming from.

“What does this say, then?” Basil nods, indicating for Simon to turn and look at something behind his head. He steps back enough for Simon to do so.

There’s a plaque on the wall, and the lit torch above it illuminates it enough for Simon to read the engraving. “ _Watson_ ,” he says out loud, though it takes a moment to sink in. “That’s—”

“One of the most powerful families in Hellarium, yes,” Basil continues for him. “This is where everyone in their family gets buried.”

Simon turns back to look at Basil with more confusion than ever. “What’s that go to do with—”

“All the prestigious families are down here. Can you guess what it says on that one?” Basil says, motioning towards the corridor from which he appeared.

“How should I—” Simon begins, before realization strikes him. “ _Pitch_ …”

Basil gives him an icily insincere smile. “Very good, Snow.”

“You were…” Simon doesn’t even bother finishing his thought; they both know what he was going to say. Basil was down here visiting his mother’s resting place. “Shit…”

“This does not explain what you are doing down here, however,” Basil says, pushing his hand against the wall again and leaning in threateningly until Simon is backed up against it once more. “Checking up on me, were you? Have you not any cleaning to do? Shall I assign you more chores if you are this bored?”

“I was just—” Simon stops when he notices Basil glaring at his throat, and he puts his hand over his pendant to remind himself it’s there.

Basil tugs down the neckline of Simon’s tunic and hooks his finger under the cord holding the pendant around Simon’s neck. He lifts it until the pendant is free and smiles again, this time slightly more amused. “Bloody Rosemary leaves,” he says, a statement, not a question. “Are you expecting to run into some kind of monster down here, Snow?”

Simon reaches up to take it back, but Baz curls his hand around the pendant and yanks on it, jerking Simon forward. Simon coughs and chokes on his breath, but Basil holds the pendant tightly in his fist. If he were a creature of evil, he’d be the one struggling for breath right now, and his hand would be burning.

“I should have known you would be so ignorant,” he says, letting go of the pendant and giving Simon a shove into the wall. He laughs mirthlessly as he starts to walk away. “You’re pathetic.”

“What are you going to do?” Simon asks when he can breathe again, and Basil stops to look back at him.

“About what, exactly?”

Simon clenches his jaw; he’s afraid to ask. “About me… About this.”

“If you are asking whether I am going to turn you over to the High Council for stalking me, no, I am not,” Basil says evenly. “I would rather keep you where I can see you.”

Simon knows better than to feel relief at those words.

* * *

“Good morning, Basil!”

The beautiful blond woman smiles sweetly as she approaches. “You as well, Penelope. And Snow.”

Simon gives her a nod but doesn’t speak; he is not sure if it is his place to, for one thing, but the way she looks at him always makes him feel as though he will start stammering if he says a word. It does not help that nearly every time they meet, he is covered in mud and horse shit.

The latest demeaning chore to be added to his list has been cleaning up after Basil’s horse. Simon was not even aware Basil had a horse, but he has gone riding nearly every day for the past few weeks—ever since he caught Simon following him in the catacombs. Simon knows it is just to spite him. There are stable boys for this sort of thing, in any case, but Basil insists that Simon tend to it himself.

Basil has been riding with Agatha—the daughter of another Council member—who seems rather pleased that Basil has finally taken her up on the offer, after asking for so long. Simon is certain that Basil has not told her he is only doing it to torment his servant. Agatha does not seem like the sort to find that amusing.

Besides, Simon thinks it is quite possible that Basil is actually taken with Agatha. She is very lovely. And she has been spending more and more time around Basil lately. Though he makes Simon stay by his side whenever they are together, unless they are riding. Basil never really seemed to make any effort to charm her, however—at least not until she started trying to include Simon in their conversations. Since then he has been nothing but charming to her. It makes Simon sick. She deserves so much better.

“Agatha,” Basil says now, practically beaming at her—which, for him, means the corner of his mouth twitches up ever so slightly. “Care to join us?”

He gestures for her to take a seat at their table in the courtyard, where he and Penelope have been playing a strategy game and debating some obscure concept that Simon doesn’t understand. (At least when Penelope tries to converse with Simon, Basil makes no attempts to distract _her_ with his charm.)

“Thank you, but I was hoping I might speak with you, briefly,” Agatha says, tucking strand of long blond hair behind her ear.

“Why, of course,” Basil says courteously, standing and straightening his jacket. Simon stands as well, but Basil looks back at him. “Snow, you can stay and finish the game with Penelope.”

“I—Really?”

“I’m sure she will be relieved that she finally has a chance of winning,” he adds, flashing a playfully mocking smirk at her. She makes a rude gesture with her hand and he laughs.

Simon sits back down, across from Penelope this time, and watches as Basil walks away with Agatha on his arm. He feels a twinge of something like jealousy, but he knows it is absurd. Even as a Nox Knight, he would not have had an actual chance to be with a nobleman’s daughter—at least not to court her properly. And he knows Agatha is not the sort of woman to be swayed by the reputation of the Nox as excellent lovers, and sneak one into her rooms at night. Simon doesn’t think he would want that, either. Agatha is like a work of art, to be admired for its beauty from a distance.

“Do you think they are courting?” Simon asks when he returns his attention to the game in front of him.

“Well, I can’t say for sure,” Penelope says.

Simon picks up one of the pieces and moves it over a couple of squares, even though he does not know the rules of the game. Penelope shakes her head and makes him put it back.

“I can’t really imagine him courting anyone,” Simon adds, studying the board as if it will reveal its secrets to him if he stares long enough. “But I suppose Agatha is quite charming. Perhaps she can break through those stone walls he puts up.”

Penelope points out a move he could make with one of his pieces and he takes it. “I’m not so sure that Agatha will be able to charm him,” she says absently as she decides on her next move. “If the rumours about him are true.”

“Rumours?” Simon asks, and Penelope looks up at him curiously.

“You know. About his… _appetites_ ,” she whispers.

Simon’s eyes widen and he leans in further to lower his voice. “So you think he’s really a vampire, then?”

Penelope looks taken aback for a second and then bursts out laughing. “Gods, no! I—It’s nothing,” she says. “Just idle gossip. But please don’t tell me you’re buying into the vampire nonsense.”

“I’m… not,” Simon replies sheepishly.

“Those rumours are spread by people who want to hurt him,” she adds. “Considering how his mother died…”

“Oh…” Simon says as the realization sinks in and shame washes over him.

He looks across the courtyard towards Basil and Agatha, seated under a canopy. Agatha seems to be doing most of the talking, while Basil just looks bored. He catches Simon watching him and narrows his eyes. But there is a hint of a smile on his face as he leans back and spreads his arms out across the top of the bench, behind Agatha’s shoulders.

Anger and jealousy mix with the shame in Simon’s stomach, and he feels nauseous. But it’s absurd for him to feel jealous.

* * *

“What did Agatha want to speak with you about?” Simon asks once he notices that Basil is finished with his dinner. He has been dying to ask since they left the courtyard, but Basil sent Simon off to do menial tasks all afternoon, and he never had a chance.

Basil does not even bother to look at him as he stands and straightens out the cuffs on his jacket. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern,” he says.

“You usually ask me to stay when the two of you are conversing,” Simon points out. “I wondered if perhaps…”

“Perhaps?” Basil finally looks over at him with poorly feigned interest.

“Are you officially courting her now?” Simon asks, sounding more irritated than he intended to.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Basil scoffs. “She merely wanted to invite me to dine with her family.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight? But you just—”

“I declined the offer, Snow,” Basil says, like he hopes it will end the conversation. But Simon is not satisfied.

“Well, isn’t it important to earn the approval of her family if you intend to court her?” he says, though he’s not sure why he is so surprised at Basil’s rudeness.

“I never said anything about courting her,” Basil replies as he walks over to his bookshelves to pick his reading material for the night. “You did.”

“If you do not intend to court her, then why do you spend so much time trying to charm her?”

Basil looks over at him with a pensive furrow in his brow. “Because it seems to bother you greatly,” he says, and Simon takes a step back like he’s been struck.

“You are toying with a young woman’s affections in order to spite me?” he says in disbelief.

“Agatha is aware I have no interest in her affections, Snow,” Basil replies, returning to his books like he is once again bored of this conversation. He pulls one off the shelf and inspects it for a moment before placing it on the bench where he likes to sit and do his reading, after his evening walk.

Simon does not know what to say as Basil crosses the room wordlessly to get his cloak.

“I expect more wine on my table when I return,” he says once he reaches the door. “And if you so much as _consider_ drinking any of it, I will make you sleep in the stables.”

Simon holds his tongue until Basil is gone, and looks down at the half-empty dinner plates in annoyance. Basil’s evening walks—Simon is not sure if he is always visiting his mother or if it is something different every night—used to take the better part of an hour, but lately the timing has seemed intentionally random, to keep Simon on his toes.

He loads up the tray to carry the dishes back to the kitchens and fetch Basil’s wine as quickly as he can, because he knows how much Basil hates waiting for him.

Returning from the kitchens takes longer than it should have, however, because Simon is stopped on his way towards the stairs to Basil’s rooms. The men who had brought Simon to Basil the first night spot him heading back with the wine and stand in his path.

“The Pitch boy kept you around, then?” one of them asks with a smug look on his face. “Guess you really are his type.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Simon replies, narrowing his eyes, and the other man laughs

“What did I tell you?” the man says to the first one. “Apparently he fancies them strong and dim-witted.”

“I—What—”

“Go on, don’t keep your lover waiting,” he taunts, directing his words at Simon now, who is still stuttering in front of them.

“My—” Simon begins, but clamps his mouth shut when everything hits him all at once.

Phrases like “ _unnatural tendencies”_ and “ _shameful preferences”_ filter through Simon’s head—even Basil’s own admission that he has no interest in Agatha’s affections. It all clicks into place to paint a picture that Simon had not expected.

The laughing men are gone by the time Simon comes back to full awareness of himself, and he is at once relieved and regretful that he was not able to at least clear his own name. He does not care whether or not people assume his _tendencies_ to be similarly _unnatural_ , but the idea that anyone thinks he could spare any affection for such a heinous man burns him up from the inside.

_‘Don’t keep your lover waiting.’_

It takes all of Simon’s strength to restrain himself from throwing the wine bottle at the wall. As if he could ever love someone like that, regardless of whether or not he is a man.

They were wrong about another thing, he thinks as he starts walking again. No matter Basil’s preferences, he would never feel that way about Simon in a million years. He despises Simon, and the feeling is mutual.

“Snow.”

Simon is startled by the harsh greeting when he approaches the stairs to Basil’s rooms only to find Basil returning from the other direction. Basil stops in front of the stairwell and glares at him.

“I told you to have that on my table before I returned,” Basil says, and Simon clutches the bottle tighter in his hand. “You cannot even follow simple instructions.”

“How was I to know you would return so soon, Master Pitch?” Simon replies through his teeth. Seeing the hatred and disgust in Basil’s eyes fills him with rage now more than ever.

Basil reaches out and snatches the bottle from Simon’s grasp. “Get out of my sight,” he says with a dismissive wave, “before I change my mind about sending you to the stables.”

Simon does not dignify his demand with a response, he simply turns on his heel and walks off, waiting for the anger inside him to fade.

 _Lover_. It’s laughable, really. Simon cannot imagine how anyone could ever love that man. Anyone who willingly shares a bed with him would surely have to be bought.

 _Lover_.

The word makes Simon’s skin itch so much, he hardly gets a wink of sleep.

* * *

Simon’s skin itched all through the next day, too. It felt like Basil’s eyes were always on him, searing into him, no matter what he did. The judgment and loathing rolled off Basil like a thick fog, clouding Simon’s thoughts as he tried to complete his basic tasks. Every one of Basil’s demands sent an angry rush through Simon’s veins until he was practically boiling.

Simon felt like a fool. He had heard half the people in the palace whispering about Basil during his time here, but he never realized he was part of those whispers, too. He knows, realistically, that Basil did not keep him around just to incite rumours about him, but he almost wishes that were the case. At least then his unfocused rage could have a direction.

Basil has done nothing but torment Simon since they met, and anyone should be able to see that. Not once has Basil done any sort of thing to suggest that the looks he burns into Simon’s skin day in and day out are fuelled by anything other than contempt. The only thing he enjoys is watching Simon suffer. Perhaps that is the _unnatural tendency_ people should be concerned about.

By the time Basil’s dinner arrives, however, he is barely acknowledging Simon’s presence. Simon is not sure if the lack of attention is better or worse, but it does nothing to quell the fire in him. After he is finished, Basil casually lists off a series of chores for Simon to complete while he is out—even though both of them know there is no way Simon can get them all done—and then heads off for his evening walk. Simon considers trashing Basil’s rooms and disappearing, but he has nowhere to go. He will be discovered and deemed a traitor once more.

Simon starts making his way through Basil’s list, in the order he called out the tasks, but he is only halfway through scrubbing the floors by the time Basil returns.

Basil makes a show of stepping around Simon, to emphasize what an inconvenience he is, but Simon ignores him and keeps scrubbing. He does not trust himself to speak tonight.

“You did not clear away my dinner,” Basil says as he walks up to the table to find his plates sitting exactly as he had left them. Cleaning them up was one of the last things he mentioned before leaving.

Simon still does not answer him, or even look up at all, until a small chunk of bread lands on the floor in front of him. He glances up to see Basil tearing off pieces of his half-eaten dinner roll and tossing them to the floor, including areas where Simon has already cleaned. It would not be so terrible, really, except some of the pieces have gravy on them.

Simon returns his focus to scrubbing and ignores Basil twice as hard, but that is when Basil flicks a larger, crusty—albeit gravy-less—chunk right at Simon’s head. Simon freezes in place when it hits him, and his rage finally boils over.

He is on his feet before he can stop himself, and lunging at Basil with both arms out. He doesn’t stop pushing until Basil hits the wall with a thud. It takes a moment for Basil’s breath to return to him, and when it does, he lets it out in a huff.

“Are you sure this is wise, Snow?” he says, only pushing back enough to keep Simon from crushing him.

“Wisdom has nothing to do with it,” Simon growls.

“It never does, with you.”

“I am not your dog,” he adds, giving Basil another shove to try and jostle him into fighting back.

“No, a dog would be far more obedient,” Basil says, but when he pushes back this time, it’s enough to send Simon staggering backwards.

Simon is somewhat pleased with himself for getting a rise out of Basil, and when Simon regains his balance, he charges at him once more. Basil is faster this time and he sidesteps Simon’s attack, using the opportunity to swoop around and push him against the wall instead, face first.

In the time it takes Simon to orient himself and face Basil again, Basil manages to get the upper hand on him and wrestles his arms up over his head to pin them against the wall above him. Simon struggles to pull his arms free, but Basil’s grip on his wrists is unyielding.

“You are testing my patience, Snow,” Basil says, his condescending indifference now replaced by something a bit more fiery. When Simon tries to break free again—and fails, again—Basil smirks.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon asks with a bitterly mocking tone, pulling at his arms once more, to no avail. “To overpower me before you have me? Is this what sates your _appetite_?”

“Carrying on with the vampire rumours again, I see.”

Simon stops struggling and tries to return Basil’s smug look. “Different appetite.”

He watches Basil’s face to see the moment his words register, and Basil pushes himself away forcefully. Simon thought Basil would at least deny it, that it would get him riled up and ruffled again, but his eyes just go dead cold.

“Get out,” Basil says without raising his voice. He is not even looking at Simon now, as he folds his arms together.

Simon had been spoiling for a fight—he thought that was why Basil had been goading him—but this sudden shift sobers him up and tamps down most of the rage bubbling inside of him. Now he just feels shame.

He’s not sure why. He won, essentially. He got Basil to back down and neither of them even had to throw a punch. He should feel better, if anything. But he doesn’t.

He stops to consider clearing away the dinner dishes with him, but Basil repeats his command louder, and Simon hurries on his way.

* * *

“Sit,” Basil commands, but Simon doesn’t obey. Basil walks towards him until he’s right in Simon’s face, staring down at him. “I said, _sit_.”

“Make me,” Simon replies, a self-satisfied grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Basil doesn’t repeat himself again, he simply shoves Simon hard enough that he falls back onto Basil’s bed and then crowds in closer, so that Simon couldn’t stand if he wanted to without pushing him away.

“Disrobe,” Basil says, calm yet assertive. “Now.”

Simon does as he’s told, and feels his skin heating up under Basil’s watchful eye. “Is it true, then?” he asks as he undresses. “What people say about you?”

“I never said you were allowed to speak,” Basil says, bending forward over Simon and holding himself up with his hands against the bed, above Simon’s shoulders. The look in Basil’s eye sends a flash of heat coiling in Simon’s belly.

“But you fancy me, don’t you?” Simon reaches for the sides of Basil’s shirt, hanging open and loose without his jacket, when Basil brings his knees up onto the bed, bracketing Simon’s thighs.

Basil sits up quickly and grabs both of Simon’s wrists away, pinning them to the bed. His grip is cold, but does nothing to cool the fire in Simon’s veins. “I despise you, Snow,” he spits.

He lets go of Simon’s wrists and presses one hand against Simon’s chest. The other reaches further down. Simon inhales sharply at the shock of a cool hand around him, but it warms up quickly with every stroke, and soon he’s moaning Basil’s name.

“How dare you address me with such familiarity,” Basil says, pressing down harder on Simon’s chest while stroking him faster.

“ _Ngh_ —! Fuck you,” Simon grunts out with his eyes clenched shut. He half expects to see someone else when he opens them again, someone more enticing than Basil— _anyone_ —but those stormy grey eyes are still staring back at him, dark and hungry.

“Shall I stop?” Basil asks condescendingly. “Leave you here, wanting and needy.”

Choruses of _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t_ , alternate with _I want, I want, I want,_ in Simon’s head. “ _No_ ,” he says, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Basil leans forward until his face is hovering above Simon’s, just out of Simon’s reach. “Are you sure this is wise, Snow?”

It’s as if the world’s just been pulled out from under him, and Simon falls and falls until he wakes with a start in his own bed, covered in sweat.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

* * *

Simon does not say a word when he enters Basil’s rooms in the morning. He’s not even certain if he is supposed to return today; he would not be surprised if Basil never wanted to see him again. Simon feels like he crossed a line, saying what he said last night, and he cannot stop the feeling of guilt rising in his stomach.

The guilt, however, is repeatedly drowned out by waves of shame that have been taking him over every so often since he awoke. He cannot even look Basil in the eye. Which is easy enough to maintain, since Basil barely glances in his direction when Simon walks in.

“Bring me my jacket,” Basil says as he fusses with the collar of his shirt, making it stand high around his neck.

Simon picks up the jacket he left out last night, without any complaint, even though Basil is standing much closer to it. He even goes to the trouble of helping Basil slip it on without argument.

“Shall I take your uncharacteristic silence as an apology?” Basil says while he fastens the front of the jacket. He turns to face Simon, but Simon will not meet his gaze. “You must know I require something more substantial than that in order to forgive.”

“‘M sorry,” Simon mumbles quietly.

“Speak up, unless you would like to have me silence you for good.”

He lifts his head and glares at Basil, but he can already feel his face warming up as memories of his dream dance before him. “Apologies, Master Pitch,” he says through gritted teeth. “I was out of line yesterday.”

“You are out of line most days,” Basil replies, looking bored of him already. He breezes past Simon towards his bookshelf. “I suggest you find your way back in line, or you might find yourself in a world of trouble. _Simon_.”

An icy chill runs down Simon’s spine, as though he’s just been hit with a frost spell. He looks over at Basil slowly, terrified of the name that came out of Basil’s mouth. “What did you just—”

“I know who you really are,” Basil says as he picks out a book and inspects it. He flips it open for a moment and then snaps it shut before looking back at Simon. “And if you cross me again, I might just have to tell someone what I know.”

“But—But—How did—What—”

Basil makes his way swiftly towards the door, but stops at Simon’s side and leans in to speak, lowering his voice. “If you dare accuse me of something so brazenly again, I will reveal you to the Council, and you will be _begging_ to clean up horse shit. Understood?”

Simon stands in stunned silence as Basil continues past him, unable to move or speak or think.

“Come along, Snow,” Basil calls out from the doorway. “You do not want to test my patience again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsters, magic, and other surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** There is some monster-fighting violence in this chapter. Nothing horribly graphic, fairly canon-typical.

Simon has not been allowed to ride on horseback since before he was captured.

The feeling is somewhat liberating, now, even though he knows this by no means equates his freedom. Basil made it very clear that if Simon were to make a move to escape during this expedition, Basil would reveal his secret and have him hunted down. But with the breeze in his hair and the sun on his skin, Simon cannot help but feel like little else matters right now.

He rides behind the others, except for one swordsman on his tail—presumably so he does not try to escape. Their traveling party is not very large, though. In addition to himself and Basil, there is one other servant, three armed guards—including the one trailing him—and Basil’s father, Malcolm Grimm. He is the reason they are taking this journey, to visit one of his farms. From what Simon has gathered, Malcolm owns several farms in this part of the country, and he likes to check in on them now and again to make sure operations are going smoothly, and to collect his profits.

Simon has never seen Basil accompany his father on one of these visits, but he does not ask why they must go now. Basil will tell him it is none of his business, surely. Perhaps it isn’t his business. Simon knows he should stop concerning himself with the things Basil chooses to do, since, in the end, Basil will always choose to make Simon’s life miserable anyway.

The air smells of late summer and, as they approach their destination, farmland. It reminds Simon of the small village where he grew up, and the rank stench of manure carries at once a hint of comfort and unease. He bites down a smirk of satisfaction when Basil makes a sour face at the smell and coughs into his sleeve. Basil tries to hold his nose, as they make their way from the main road to the farmhouse, but he nearly loses control of his horse. Simon squeezes his own reins so tightly for a moment that his fingers ache, just to keep himself from laughing.

He and one of the farmhands get the horses settled in the stables to rest once their party arrives. At first he is not sure why Malcolm’s servant is not made to help, as well—but then he realizes that no one asked him to do this. He simply started doing it without a second thought.

Simon glances over at Basil, standing with his father and the farmer as they talk, almost as if he expects to find Basil watching him, laughing at what a fool he is. His face gets hot when Basil catches his eye and glares at him, only for a moment. He returns his attention to the horses, figuring he might as well finish what he started, even if he is red with embarrassment.

By the time he is done attending to the horses, Basil and his father are already following the farmer into the house, and Simon has to jog to catch up. Basil gives him a condescending once-over when Simon reaches them, his mouth pinched in a way that could either be amusement or contempt, but Simon cannot tell which.

“How kind of you to join us, Snow,” he says, his words practically bending under the weight of his sarcasm. He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “I suggest you not stray too far from my side again, or I may just have to assume you are trying to run off.”

“Of course, _Master Pitch_ ,” Simon replies under his breath. He could nearly laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. As if he would risk running away, knowing that Basil would send the guards after him and that he has nowhere to go. It’s not as though he has a home anymore.

Simon stays at Basil’s side, silently, hardly paying attention to the conversation between Malcolm and the farmer. Crop yields and profit projections are of no interest to him, nor do they seem to be of interest to Basil, who is inspecting his fingernails for dirt from the road, as though this were the most dull conversation he has witnessed in ages. It probably is, to be fair.

“Would you not agree, Basilton?” Malcolm says, startling Basil and Simon into looking up.

“Agree with what, father?” Basil asks, without even pretending to have been paying attention.

Malcolm exhales through his nose with an exasperated huff. “Honestly, Basilton, one might think you have no interest in your own future, the way you sit there minding your vanity instead of our family’s livelihood.”

“Our livelihood comes off another man’s breaking back, is that it?” Basil replies, leaning back casually in his seat.

Simon wants to make a snide remark about the back-breaking work Basil makes him do all the time, but it occurs to him that his chores have been far less strenuous the past few weeks. Ever since Basil threatened to expose him… It is not as though Basil has been kind to him, by any means, but scrubbing floors he has already cleaned and hauling giant urns around a courtyard have not been on his list of commands in a while. He has spent more time being Basil’s shadow, these past weeks, than anything else.

“If it is simply a matter of collecting coin, I hardly think I need an advanced lesson to do that,” Basil adds. He crosses one ankle over his knee and brushes dust from his trousers absently.

A cord in Malcolm’s neck flexes as he tenses his jaw before he turns to the farmer to apologize for his son’s behaviour. “It is my fault,” he says. “I suppose I coddle the boy. Though he has never really had a head for business like this. Far too… delicate. I was hoping this trip could teach him a thing or two.”

“Planning to send me out into the fields, father?” Basil says. His father glares at him. “Toughen me up a bit?”

“There’s no need for that,” the farmer assures Malcolm. “We’re happy to keep things running on this end. So long as we can keep everyone healthy…”

“Yes, of course.” Malcolm clears his throat and nods for the farmer to lead the way out of the room. Simon expects that he and Basil are meant to follow, but Basil doesn’t make a move, and Malcolm doesn’t look back at him.

“Where are they going?” Simon asks, before he can think better of it.

“To make the exchange, I expect,” Basil replies. He stands and walks over to a table at the side of the room. He picks up a doll made of straw and turns it over in his hand, inspecting it idly. “I thought they would have done it after dinner, but I suppose business must come first.”

Simon does not know whether to remain seated or to join Basil as he wanders towards the small, unlit fireplace. “What exchange?” he asks.

“My father collects his share of the profits, and Mr. Adams gets the herbal remedies from Watford that his wife needs.”

“Remedies? Is she ill?”

Basil looks over at him. “In the head,” he says.“ _Emotionally disturbed_ , they say. Can’t stop crying most days unless she has those remedies.” He chuckles mirthlessly and stares down at the hearth. “I would be emotionally disturbed, too, if I had to live out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Simon snorts. “Perhaps you are delicate, then,” he says, though it sounds more like a joke—one he might make with Penelope, for instance—than a bitter remark. He sees the corner of Basil’s mouth twitch up, briefly.

“Wait, did you say something about dinner?” Simon adds, rising to his feet. “We’re staying for dinner?”

“I would not get my hopes up if I were you, I cannot expect it is anything better than what you are used to in the servants’ quarters—”

“But—How are we going to return to the palace by nightfall if we’re staying for dinner?”

Basil raises an eyebrow at him. “Who says we’re going to return by nightfall?”

“Well, it’s more difficult to ride in the night, especially if—”

“We are not leaving until tomorrow, Snow,” Basil says. “The horses cannot travel that much in one day.”

“I—But—You never told me that we—”

“It should have been obvious. Besides, it is not as though telling you would have made a difference. You haven’t even got spare clothes, have you?” He eyes Simon distastefully, even though he’s wearing the tunic Basil chose for him. “Let alone any sort of grooming necessities. Nothing you would need to bring.”

Simon wishes he could argue, but Basil is right. Though he does feel foolish for not thinking of this on his own. “We’re meant to sleep here, then? In the farmhouse?”

“Would you rather sleep in the stables?” Basil asks him mockingly.

“No, but—Where’m I meant to sleep? I can’t imagine they’ve got servants’ quarters.”

“Of course not. You’ll sleep in my room.”

“I—What?” He can’t help but picture Basil’s room, back at the palace, with its ornate bedposts and plush cushions, even though he knows that is not what they will find here.

“As I said before, I cannot have you straying too far, Snow.” The way Basil glares at him as he says it would make Simon worry if he still thought Basil were a vampire, but knowing that he most likely is not only worries Simon more.

He glances at the fireplace as warmth spreads across his cheeks, but it’s still unlit.

* * *

Simon rolls from one side to the other, trying to find a position that is comfortable, lying on the floor next to the bed, which Basil has claimed as his and his alone.

After dinner and more inane conversation, Simon had followed Basil to the guest’s quarters where they were to spend the night. Although it was only a small room with a bed, and nothing else. He had wondered if they were meant to share the bed—it seemed large enough for them to share without disturbing one another—but before he could even ask, Basil dropped one of the bed cushions to the floor and bid Simon goodnight.

Simon doesn’t know how long he’s been rolling around and turning over, trying to find a spot on the floor where the uneven boards don’t dig into his side, but he is certain he will not get a restful night’s sleep. The warmth of the day has disappeared with the setting sun, and without a fire the chill of night fills the room and cuts through Simon’s clothing. He turns again, curling in on himself, but before long his arm feels pinched, tingling right down to his fingertips. He wriggles it out from beneath him and waves it around to regain normal sensation.

“Would you quit thrashing about and making a fuss,” Basil snaps at him, though Simon is surprised he’s still awake.

Simon rolls onto his back in a huff. “I can’t sleep like this,” he grumbles. “It’s too hard and too cold. The least you could do is spare me a blanket.”

“It is far too cold for me to _give_ you one of my blankets, Snow.”

“Then imagine how cold it is for me!” Simon says as he sits up to glare at Basil. Simon can just barely make out his cocooned form in the dim moonlight from the window. “If I don’t get a blanket, I’ll wake up sore and freezing, if I even make it through the night!”

“You are not going to freeze to death down there,” Basil says, not sparing Simon a single glance. “For one thing, you’re always exceedingly warm.”

Simon lies back down, grudgingly. “If I’m so warm, then why not let me warm your bed,” he says, not realizing how the words sound until after he has already said them.

He grunts and rolls away onto his side to try and will himself to sleep against the solid floor, but soon feels the weight of something fall on him. He lashes out for a moment before he realizes Basil simply threw a quilt at him, in a lump.

“I—Why did you—” he begins, disoriented by this sliver of kindness.

“Wouldn’t want you climbing up here to warm my bed in the night,” Basil says dismissively. “I bite.”

* * *

Simon’s joints are screaming at him the next morning, as though he aged twenty years in one night. He is used to sleeping in less than ideal conditions, but sleeping on the floor was particularly harsh last night. The blanket Basil dumped on him was probably the only thing that allowed him a wink of sleep at all. Without that bit of cushioning and warmth, the ride back to the palace today would be unbearable.

Simon thinks about thanking Basil for the quilt, when they take a break on their journey to eat and stretch their legs. But Basil has barely acknowledged Simon’s existence all morning. His demeanour today is nothing like yesterday; he is constantly hassling Simon with demands and berating him for his mistakes. After all this time working for him, Simon could have sworn there was almost something friendly about the way Basil has been treating him of late. Perhaps not _friendly_ , but familiar. The nearly imperceptible smirk yesterday when Simon called him _delicate_. The joke about biting…

Now he’s turned back to ice, like when Simon first met him. Cold and impatient, as though Simon can’t do anything right. Simon thinks he must not have gotten much rest last night either; he looks wrung out.

“Stand down, Snow,” he says when Simon tries to follow him into the woods after everyone had eaten. “I certainly do not need your assistance with this.”

“What—” Simon starts to ask, but then it occurs to him that Basil is probably going to _relieve himself_ , and he snaps his mouth shut in embarrassment.

He does as he’s told and stays behind, and begins preparing their horses to resume their journey soon. Most of the others are nearly ready to leave, but Basil is taking longer than Simon would have thought. He hears rustling coming from the trees nearby, and for a moment he thinks that something has gotten to Basil. He’s not sure what; this part of the country is fairly well maintained, kept clear of monsters by Nox Knights hired by the palace. There should not be anything dangerous around.

Still, he’s glad to see Basil return—especially since he nearly trips on an overgrown tree root on his way out of the woods, which is amusing.

“No need to stare, Snow,” he says when he walks up to Simon and the horses, brushing a leaf off his sleeve. Simon cannot help but notice that he seems in higher spirits now, a bit flushed and invigorated—and briefly wonders if perhaps Basil had gone to _relieve himself_ in a different way.

The thought makes Simon’s cheeks burn and he turns away quickly.

He continues going about preparing the horses, making sure the saddles are secure and they’ve got everything they need with them, but he looks over when Basil lifts his head abruptly.

He looks over his shoulder quickly and then turns to Simon. “Did you hear that?” he says, and Simon frowns.

“Hear what—” Simon’s cut off by the sound of scuttling from a nearby thicket of trees.

It’s not the same sound that Basil made when he emerged from the woods; it’s a crackling, hissing sound that sets Simon’s hairs on end. He knows it can only mean one thing.

“Delhiid,” he says, loud enough that only Basil can hear him. By the look on Basil’s face, he is as surprised about this as Simon. “We have to get everyone out of here, now.”

He knows it’s ridiculous. Even if there were delhiid in these woods, they tend to stay underground in the daytime. They wouldn’t be prowling around the forest. Probably. But it’s too risky to wait and find out.

If Simon were prepared, if he had his tough yet lightweight armour and his trusty sword, he could handle a couple delhiid easily. One of his first assignments as a Nox was to clear out an abandoned farmhouse where they had nested. He remembers being shocked by the size of them, though. Somehow the name Deliterachne Hiid _—giant venomous spiders—_ wasn’t enough to prepare him for spiders larger than himself, even though he had been taught about them in his training.

It doesn’t take much to kill one, either. Just a good lashing of fire or a strategic slashing of a sword, but the trick is to do it without getting bitten. Their venom is deadly. But given that Simon lacks the equipment to deal with them at the moment, and that the swordsmen riding with them were not likely trained for this, he knows their only option is to run.

Basil doesn’t argue with him, and goes to warn his father right away. The scuttle and hiss from the trees grows louder, but Simon resists the urge to call out to the others. Loud noise will only alert the monsters of their presence before they can get away.

“That is absurd,” Malcolm says, loud enough for Simon to hear him from this distance. “There are no _deliterachne_ in these woods, son.”

Basil says something in response, and Malcolm mounts his horse anyway. Basil is scowling as he hurries back to Simon. “Let’s go,” he says as he prepares to mount his own horse, but a loud crunch of dried out leaves spooks it and Basil has to step back.

Simon whips around when the scuttling grows louder, this time coming from a different direction, just in time to see a set of spindly, hairy legs crawling out from the trees.

“Get back,” he shouts, waving his arms for Basil to stay behind him as he stares down the beast in front of them. He’s always been good at thinking on his feet in a situation like this, but when two more delhiid appear, dividing their riding party in half, he’s not sure what to do.

Malcolm is already on his horse, looking like he is ready to flee, while the two guards with him draw their swords. The last one, trapped near the trees with Simon and Basil, draws his as well, but Simon can tell he has no idea what to do.

“Aim for the centre of the cephalothorax!” Simon shouts at him when one of the delhiid lunges, but the guard just starts swinging his sword, hacking at the beast’s legs. It’s enough to hold it back, but not enough to defeat it. It recoils briefly and then lunges towards Basil.

Without another thought, Simon sends a fireball at the delhiid, causing it to squeal and fall back. He shoots the others with fire as well. It’s a more advanced spell than he’s used to working with, most of the time, and he had always focused his training more on sword work than magic, but one of the delhiid catches on fire and crumples to the ground as the flames take it. On the far side of the beasts, Simon sees Malcolm and his men staring at him, shocked, before taking off on horseback.

Simon can’t understand why Malcolm would just leave his son here to die like this, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he dodges a delhiid attack and fends it off with another small spurt of fire. He can’t keep track of what everyone else is doing, but by the time he hears the nearby guardsman scream, it’s already too late.

Basil rushes over and drops to the ground beside him, as if there’s anything he can do. But it’s clear to Simon that the man’s injuries are already too great for him to recover.

“Basil!” Simon shouts. He scoops up the sword that the guard dropped when he was hit, and takes a jab at the monster poising to attack Basil, sending it scurrying backward. “Basil, get out of here!”

Simon ducks out of the way when it lunges for him, this time, and manages to get around its side. His sword crunches through the centre of it and it collapses to the ground with horrendous squeal. It takes a couple of good tugs for Simon to get his sword free.

“Snow, watch out!” Basil shouts, and Simon feels himself getting yanked aside by his shoulder, just as the last delhiid narrowly misses him.

Simon tries to stab this one as well, but it’s too fast and turns on him before he can land a hit. He can see it ready to pounce on him, but he doesn’t have enough magic left for another fire spell. He firms up his stance and surges his sword up and into the belly of the beast, just as a piercing pain shoots down his arm and back.

He lets go of the sword involuntarily, but the delhiid falls as well, crying out with its last breath as its fangs withdraw from Simon’s shoulder.

“Fuck!” Simon groans, clamping his hand over his injury while the pain howls at him. He knows, from his research, that delhiid bites don’t hurt for very long, but the venom will kill a man within days without the antidote. He only hopes he’s still able to ride a horse long enough to return to Mummers and seek out the palace healer.

“Are you alright?” he asks Basil, whirling around around to find him as he tries to catch his breath.

Basil stares at him like he’s out of his mind. “I’m not the one who just got bitten by a _delhiid_ ,” he says as he rushes over to Simon’s side.

Simon shrugs and looks down at the corpse next to him—because the man who was with them no longer is, that much is clear—considering what to do with it. The horses have already run off, scared, and Simon doesn’t know if Malcolm and the others plan to return for them.

“Come on,” Basil says, grabbing Simon by his uninjured arm and dragging him off. “We have to get out of here.”

“I think that was it, though,” Simon replies, but Basil doesn’t loosen his grip. “I don’t hear any more of them around.”

“The delhiid may not be a threat, but the men my father has surely gone to fetch and arrest you _are_ ,” Basil says.

“Arrest me?” Simon asks, nearly tripping over the same gnarled root that Basil did, as Basil leads him away. Somewhere. “For what?”

“It’s illegal to use magic if you’re not registered, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“But I am registered!”

Basil stops and looks Simon in the eye, a mixture of determination and fear in his eyes. “ _Simon the Nox Knight_ may be registered to use magic, but _Snow the humble servant_ certainly is not.”

“But—I saved your life!” Simon argues when Basil starts to drag him along again.

“I know.” Basil continues forward without so much as a glance at him. “But my father is strongly opposed to magic falling into the ‘wrong hands,’ and he’ll leap at any chance to rid the community of an unregistered user.” He lets go of Simon’s arm in order to make his way down a steep slope towards the river, and Simon follows.

“So what are we doing, then?” Simon asks when Basil stops next to a tree.

Basil finally looks at him again. “Hiding.”

* * *

Simon doesn’t ask any more questions as he follows Basil alongside the river; he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Here,” Basil says, directing Simon to a spot next to the river, where the water seems to have eroded a ridge into the riverbank. Tucked beneath it and behind a large boulder, the two of them could remain hidden if anyone were to glance down towards the river.

Nevertheless, Simon is wary.

“There must be a town or a farmhouse nearby, somewhere we can find some help,” he says. “Do we really need to crouch in the dirt?”

“Come off it, Snow,” Basil replies, tugging Simon down by the sleeve. “You sound like me.”

Simon grunts from a twinge of pain in his shoulder. “I am injured, you know.”

“I am aware. All the more reason we get you sorted out now, rather than wait until it’s safe to find more suitable shelter.”

“You really think your father will send people after us?” Simon asks, as Basil searches his bag for something.

Basil pulls out a vial and holds it up to the light. “At the very least he’ll want to find me,” he says. “I can’t imagine my disappearance would do wonders for his reputation.”

“Then maybe you should—” Simon lets the end of his sentence fall to the ground between them when Basil starts pulling gently at the neckline of his tunic. “What are you—”

“I need to see the wound,” Basil says, sucking in a sharp breath as he peels the torn and bloody fabric away from Simon’s shoulder.

Simon watches him, mesmerized for a moment. He can’t understand the man who sits before him, the one who has treated him like vermin for months, now tending to his wound.

“This will keep it from getting infected,” Basil says, dispensing a couple drops of liquid from his vial onto the site of the delhiid bite. “But the venom is already in your blood, I’m sure. We have less than a day to get you the antidote.”

“I’m guessing you don’t carry any around in that bag of yours, then?” Simon replies, trying to disguise his worry with a forced laugh.

Basil shakes his head. He’s not laughing. “We’ll have to make some,” he says. “Which means I need to go get some of the venom, while it’s still fresh. And before my father’s men return.”

“Wait,” Simon says, when Basil stands and brushes dirt off his clothing. “You’re going back out there?”

“Unless you have a better idea,” Basil replies, but Simon just pinches his mouth shut. “Wait here and don’t let anyone find you.”

Simon’s fear turns to anger as he watches Basil start to walk away. “How do I even know you’ll come back for me?” he calls out to him. “You hate me; why should I trust you?”

“Because,” Basil says, stopping to look back briefly. “You have no choice.”

* * *

Simon manages to clean up some of the blood from his injury while he waits for Basil to return, though his clothing is badly stained. He presses wet leaves against his wound to relieve some of the ache, but he knows it won’t do him much good in the long run. Even if he had the right plants around him to help with the pain—which he would not recognize, as he’d never really trained much in this sort of healing—he still needs the antidote to survive.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, but he’s decided that Basil isn’t returning for him right before he hears the rustling of grass near the river bank. He looks around for something he could use as a weapon, though he doesn’t know how much good it would do him when he can barely move his sword arm at the moment. He uses the last ounce of magic within him to conjure a small flame in his hand, but a familiar voice cuts through the air, filling him at once with relief and dread.

“Stand down, Snow,” Basil says as he steps out from behind the large rock, and Simon snuffs out his flame immediately.

Basil holds up the small vial in his hand, which Simon assumes to be the venom. He knows it’s not easy to extract venom from a delhiid, but he doesn’t ask Basil how he did it. He’s just thankful that Basil returned at all.

“Put your skills to use and make us a fire,” Basil says to him, pointing at a spot on the ground between them.

Simon nods and goes about gathering up some sticks nearby that don’t seem too damp. There’s not enough to make a fire for camp, but for heating a potion it should be fine. And then it occurs to him.

“Ba—Er, Master Pitch,” he says, piling the sticks in front of him. “I, well, I don’t actually know how to make a delhiid antidote. The magic I was taught, it was only about conjuring and harnessing certain energies. I never learned potions or—”

“I know how to make it,” Basil says dismissively, pulling various ingredients out of his bag. Some look like plants he probably gathered on his way back, but some must be items he’d brought with him from the palace. It looks almost like a healer’s bag.

Simon doesn’t question him, although he can’t understand how this is possible. While many potions can be brewed without magic, the delhiid venom antidote is a tricky one, and only magical healers produce it.

He watches in fascination as Basil combines the ingredients in a metal cup of water, measuring out powders by the pinch and flowers by the petal, and finally adding three drops of the venom, letting each one swirl into the mix before allowing the next to fall. Basil sets the cup near the small fire Simon managed to get started, and they both stare silently at it, waiting, though Simon is not sure what they are waiting for, exactly.

When the first bubbles appear on the surface of the water, Basil places both his hands over the cup, hovering in the steam that’s started to rise, and mutters some incantation Simon doesn’t understand. The elixir bubbles more rapidly for a moment, then dies down just as quickly, taking on a bold purple hue.

“I didn’t know you were a healer,” Simon says quietly, though his voice comes out dry and hoarse from sitting silently for so long, and sounds too harsh against the peaceful noises from the flowing river.

“I’m not,” Basil says, almost sheepishly. He pauses to test if the cup is cool enough to touch and then picks it up to inspect it. “My mother was. I… I found her books and taught myself a thing or two.”

“So you’re not registered to practice magic, then?”

Basil glances sideways at Simon. “I hardly think you’re in a position to give me grief about that.”

“No, I—I just meant…” Simon grimaces as he watches Basil pull a leaf out of the concoction he’s brewed. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Of course you won’t.” Basil hands Simon the cup. “I could tell so many worse things about you, if you did. Now, drink up. Supposedly it tastes horrible.”

Simon grimaces again, this time staring down into the purple liquid, trying not to breathe in the stench. “I expect so.”

* * *

“How long must we sit here?” Simon asks, pushing dirt around in front of him with the heel of his boot. “I drank that disgusting potion hours ago.”

“It’s barely been one hour, Snow, look at the sun,” Basil says. He’s sitting next to Simon, with his back against the ridge of earth behind them, his head tipped back. His eyes aren’t even open.

But he’s right. The sun hasn’t moved much since Simon took the antidote, though it’s enough that they are almost entirely in shade now, except for their boots when they stretch their legs out.

“Still, I feel fine,” Simon replies. “It’s already working, so we can get a move on, surely.”

Basil tucks his legs up and looks over at Simon. “You’re still weak. The venom takes hours to wear off, and the antidote takes even longer.”

“I don’t want to just sit here for _hours_.” Simon doesn’t tell him it’s because he’s hungry.

Basil sighs. “I suppose we can go, if you’re sure you can walk—” he says, but Simon is already pushing himself up to stand.

Simon wobbles a little, and throws his arms out for balance, but Basil doesn’t offer any sort of assistance when he stands as well, much more gracefully. Basil is bending to reach for his bag when Simon hears them: riders.

The sound of horses and voices carries from over the ridge. But they should be too far from the road to hear any casual travellers.

“Get down,” Basil hisses at him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him down until he collapses back into his seat.

Simon only notices the pain spreading from his shoulder once he’s hit the ground, but Basil clamps his hand over Simon’s mouth to keep him from crying out. He resists the urge to grab his own shoulder and push down on the wound to dull the ache, as any movement could give them away. He couldn’t anyway, he realizes, since Basil is pressed so close to him that he wouldn’t be able to reach.

Basil’s chilled hands against Simon’s mouth and his sternum make his skin feel fiery in comparison, even through his tunic, and he nearly forgets to breathe. Basil’s own breath is shallow and quick, as he stares at a spot above Simon’s head. The noise gets closer, but Simon can hardly hear anything over the pounding in his chest. Basil’s fingers press into his cheek when he clamps down harder over Simon’s mouth, urging Simon to stay silent.

Simon closes his eyes and waits for the pain in his shoulder to die down; the venom may be losing its effect but the massive bite in his shoulder still stings when he moves it. His shirt is sticking to him with blood and sweat, which is not that uncommon for him, but with Basil this close he’s aware of just how pathetic he feels. Filthy. Broken. Cowering in fear.

Basil must be able to feel Simon’s heart trying to beat its way out of his chest as the sound of horses gets closer. Simon isn’t exactly sure how close they are, but the horses slow down and he does forget to breathe this time. The muffled sound of voices carries enough for him to hear them over the blood in his ears, and then the horses speed up. Basil looks down at him and he doesn’t know what to think. Are they safe? Are they done for? Is Basil going to turn him in? The whole world has turned upside down today and nothing makes sense anymore.

He can’t read Basil’s expression, but he feels Basil’s eyes and breath on his face and it makes him want to squirm. Any movement could give them away, though as the sound of horses recedes and grows faint, he figures they’re probably safe for now. But his heart won’t stop pounding.

Basil loosens his grip when all they can hear is the rush of the river, and lets his hand fall away from Simon’s face. But he doesn’t move.

“I think they’re gone,” he says quietly, after a moment, dropping his gaze from Simon’s. He finally pushes away and sits next to Simon in the dirt, his head tipped back like before as his chest rises and falls with his breath. “We should wait a bit longer, though. To be safe.”

Simon nods. He doesn’t bother arguing about it, since he’s not sure he could make it very far right now anyway. He feels dizzy, as if he stood too fast, even though he’s still seated.

He brushes his fingers over his mouth absently. He can still feel the way his skin burned under Basil’s hand, not unpleasantly. Simon steals a glance over at him and examines him, with his chin lifted and his eyes shut, strands of his dark hair falling out of the tie he uses when he rides. He looks as though the day has stretched and twisted him out of shape, he’s barely recognizable as the man Simon rode out with yesterday morning. He is frayed around the edges in a way Simon’s never seen him, but Simon finds no pleasure in knowing he was the cause of it.

“Thank you,” he says, so softly the words barely manage to scrape past the dryness in his throat. He thinks maybe Basil doesn’t hear him Or he’s pretending not to. It’s nearly a minute before Simon gets a response.

“There’s a town to the East, not far from us,” Basil says, lowering his head a little and staring at his outstretched foot. “Once the sun’s set a bit, we’ll head there. Should be able to find somewhere to rest.”

Simon swallows and asks the question he’s been trying not to think about. “And then what?”

Basil turns to look at him with a frown. “I don’t know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken rambling, awkward bed-sharing, and a dash of absurdity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** There's another non-graphic, sex-related scene in this chapter. If this stuff really bothers you, though, you probably shouldn't read the rest of this fic. Just a heads up.

As they head East, away from Watford and away from the farm Basil’s father owns, Simon can feel the day wearing on him. There are no more sharp pains in his arm when he lifts it, but a dull ache spreading from his shoulder and across his back that makes him want nothing more than to lie down for an entire month. The rumbling in his stomach doesn’t help matters, and he fantasizes about roasts and dumplings and pies all the way to the nearest town.

It’s a small place, not vastly dissimilar to the village where he grew up, except for the large inn at the centre. It looks as though it easily fits a couple dozen rooms, which seems excessive for a town of this size.

Basil explains that Argenville is on a major route between Watford and the main border into Ypsillonia—Hellarium’s neighbour to the East—so traders often travel through here and need a place to rest. Simon can tell that Basil is hesitant about stopping here for long—he says it’s risky, that his father’s men are probably still looking for them—but Simon doesn’t think he can go on any further.

“Wait,” Basil says, whisking Simon off the main road and ducking in between two small houses. He starts unfastening his riding cloak and Simon looks away.

“Wear this,” Basil adds, and hands the cloak over to him. “If you go in there dressed like _that,_ ”—he gestures at Simon’s grimy, bloody clothes—“we’re sure to draw some attention.”

Simon looks down at the heavy black cloak in his hand, trimmed with velvet and accented with red and gold, and frowns. “And this won’t?” he asks as he drapes it over his shoulders. None of the people in the village are dressed quite so decadently.

“We just have to make it inside without too many questions,” Basil replies, adjusting the collar of his shirt before heading back out to the main road. “Come along, Snow.”

Simon tries to avoid making eye contact with anyone, keeping his head lowered as he follows Basil to the inn. It feels as though everyone is staring at them, he thinks. He closes the cloak around his shoulders a bit tighter, so the wind can’t whip it away and expose his gory tunic underneath.

The inn is busier than Simon expected when they step inside, but he figures that is for the best. Less likely to be noticed in a crowded place. At least, that might be the case if they weren’t dressed as though they’d just come through a portal from Upper Watford—a portal that scuffed them up a bit, perhaps, but still, they look quite out of place.

The innkeeper eyes them curiously as they walk up to him. “What brings you to The Wandering Mare on this fine evening?” he asks, giving them a once-over with an amused look on his face. Their disheveled yet expensive clothing probably makes him think they’re grifters who stole it off some nobleman.

“Looking for a room,” Basil says, taking a coin out of his pocket and placing it on the counter. He pulls out another one and sets it down next to it. “And some discretion.”

Simon looks up when he feels Basil’s hand land on his good shoulder, and sees the innkeeper’s eyebrows raise slightly and he gives Simon an appraising glance before taking the coin. He takes a key from the wall behind him and hands it to Basil with a nod.

“Susanna will get you anything you’d like to eat or drink,” he adds, gesturing to a buxom woman carrying drinks to a nearby table. “Just find a seat and make yourselves at home.”

Basil nods and then leads Simon away, to an empty table in the far corner of the hall. Simon accidentally makes eye contact with a surly looking woman as they pass and she scowls at him. He feels like he has the word FUGITIVE written across his forehead in enormous letters.

When the barmaid comes over to serve them, Basil tells Simon to order whatever he likes. He’s too tired and too hungry to care whether or not Basil is sincere about it; he orders some of everything on offer tonight and Basil doesn’t bat an eye.

“We’ll need a plan for tomorrow,” Basil says once the barmaid is gone. “We obviously can’t risk sticking around here for more than a night. It’s too conspicuous.”

“ _We_ need a plan?” Simon asks. “ _You_ can simply return home. You’re not the one they want to arrest.”

Basil shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. If I return now, they’ll know I helped you escape,” he says. “Besides, it’s not as though you’ll make it far on your own, with no coin and no weapon, not to mention your arm is useless right now.”

“It’s not completely useless,” Simon replies with a fake smile, holding up the middle finger on his right hand.

The corner of Basil’s mouth twitches again and Simon’s stomach does a little jump.

Basil doesn’t say anything else until their food arrives, and Simon picks up his drink. “You might want to be careful, Snow,” he says. “Until the antidote wears off, you’ll be weaker to intoxication. One drink will feel like half a dozen.”

Simon chuckles as he lifts the tankard to his lips. “I think I can handle my ale.”

* * *

After one and a half tankards—and a generous helping of whatever stew the inn served them—Basil has to practically carry Simon up the stairs to their room for the night. Simon is even heavier than he looks, Basil notes, especially when he’s barely holding himself up at all.

“’M fine,” he mumbles when they reach the first landing, trying to push away from Basil, but he only ends up wobbling and collapsing against him.

“Good, I’ll just leave you here, shall I?” Basil says mockingly, though he’s still dragging Simon towards their room.

Simon staggers away when they reach the room, letting the cloak Basil gave him fall to the floor before letting himself fall to the bed, and Basil locks the door once inside. He’s not sure the lock would do much if a couple of Mummers guards started knocking down doors to find them, but he figures it unlikely at this point.

Simon is pulling his tunic off over his head when Basil turns back to face him.

“Snow, what in the gods’ names—”

“I’m hot,” Simon whines, drawing out the syllables. He bunches up his blood-soaked tunic in his hands and tosses it to the floor before flopping onto his back.

“Then you won’t mind sleeping on the floor again,” Basil says, though he knows he can’t actually let Simon do that in his state.

“Bazzzzzzzil,” Simon says, staring up at the ceiling. He snorts. “ _Baz_.” He closes his eyes for a moment, and Basil wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but then he opens them again and looks right at him. “’S’it true? What people say about you?”

Basil crosses the room to check the window and make sure it’s secure before answering. “I don’t know,” he says, still facing the window. “What do people say about me?”

Simon smirks when Basil looks over at him. “Y’know. That you _prefer the company of men_.” He says the last part with a fake Upper Watford accent, as though he is quoting someone. Basil wouldn’t be surprised if he is.

Basil leans against the window ledge and scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I prefer the company of myself,” he says dismissively. He certainly cannot tell Simon the truth of the matter.

“I see…” Simon contorts his forehead as though he were trying to raise one eyebrow but lacks the coordination. “Need me to stand guard at the door while you have a go? Or’d you rather I watch?” He laughs.

“How delightfully amusing, Snow,” Basil replies drily.

“How ‘bout I keep your bed warm while you keep yourself company?” Simon grins as though he finds himself hilarious. At least one of them does, then.

Basil doesn’t have the energy to be properly indignant tonight, especially when Simon is so clearly in his cups. “I believe you will regret saying all of this when you sober up in the morning,” he says.

Simon sits up a little, propping himself up on his left arm. “Why?” he says, still smirking. “Are y’gonna take me up on it?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Snow, but I can assure you that I will not.”

Simon laughs again and collapses onto his back, smiling up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. Basil huffs and walks over to the bed, nudging Simon’s leg with his foot.

“Get up,” he says. “You can’t sleep like that, hanging off the bed, on top of the covers. You look like a madman.”

Simon snorts and then groans as he tries to roll to one side and sit up. “Can I at least get a blanket for the floor, _Master Pitch_?” he asks, though he’s snickering.

“You won’t sleep on the floor,” Basil says reluctantly, and Simon looks up at him. “You’re injured. It won’t heal properly.”

“Where’ll you sleep, then?”

The question surprises Basil; he hadn’t considered that part. “I’ll stand guard for the night,” he says, smoothing down his sleeves to give the air that he’s unaffected by all of this.

“But you’re tired,” Simon says, staring up at him, scrutinizing him. “You didn’t sleep well last night, either.”

“I—What makes you say that?” Basil says, ruffled by the fact that Simon could tell.

Simon turns away and crawls towards the head of the bed so he can tuck himself under the covers. “You were a right git this morning,” he says with a yawn.

“Yes, well,” Basil sniffs, “it was hard to sleep with you snoring on the ground next to me.” That’s a lie, but it’s not as though he can tell Simon the real reason he hardly got a wink of sleep last night.

“Just,”—Simon pushes back the blankets on the other side of the bed to make room for Basil—“stop talking and get in. _Baz_.”

Basil tenses his jaw at the inappropriate and informal abbreviation of his name—and how much Simon seems to enjoy saying it. “I do not share beds with my servants, Snow.”

“‘M not a servant, though, am I?” Simon looks up at Basil with a cheeky grin. “I’m a Nox Knight.”

His meaning isn’t lost on Basil. The Nox are very _popular_ in places like Hellarium, especially among the women. But Basil doesn’t appreciate the joke, not when it’s at his expense, and considers storming off to get a separate room, out of spite.

“If you think that’s a selling point, Snow, you are sorely mistaken,” he says.

Simon’s eyes have already drifted shut and he presses the side of his face into his pillow. “Jus’ kidding,” he says sleepily. “I know you don’t… want…”

Basil waits for him to finish his sentence but it soon becomes clear that Simon has fallen asleep. “Wonderful,” Basil grumbles to himself. He considers his options for a moment, standing next to the bed. He is extremely tired and could use a good night’s rest, but he’s not sure he could get that in a bed with Simon. He would be a ball of nerves all night.

He eventually gives in to his exhaustion and pulls back the blankets a little more to climb in, keeping as much distance between himself and Simon as he can without falling off the edge. It’s strange, sharing a bed with someone. Feeling the heat radiating off another person, warming him through in a way that is disturbingly comforting. He’s never shared a bed with anyone before, not like this. He’s never fallen asleep next to someone, to the sound of another person’s breath in his ear.

He lets himself look over at Simon, even though he tells himself he shouldn’t. Simon is sound asleep, his curls falling over his forehead. Basil resists the urge to push them back. He knows he should roll away, avoid the temptation to look any longer, but he indulges himself. It is not as though he will ever get a chance like this again.

He watches Simon’s eyelids flutter until he, too, falls asleep.

* * *

“Do you like watching me, Basil?” Simon asks, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Basil doesn’t respond, nor does he look away. Simon’s lying in the bed next to him, but they are no longer at the inn. They’re in Basil’s room.

He doesn’t recall how they managed to get back, but he can see that Simon’s right shoulder is still wounded. Which is why Simon appears to be using his left hand to—

Basil can’t recall how this started, either. There was no conversation leading up to it. No point at which Simon turned to ask him, “ _Do you mind if I have a go with myself right here, next to you, while you’re trying to sleep?”_ Basil is certain that, if Simon had asked, he would have said, _“Absolutely not.”_

Well, he’s almost certain. It’s not as though he’s trying to stop it now, however.

He’s not sure how long he’s been watching Simon working himself like this, but he doesn’t think he could stop if he wanted to. (He doesn’t think he wants to.)

Simon doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to be revelling in Basil’s attention, like he’s putting on a bit of a show for him.

 _Taunting_ , Basil thinks. That’s what Simon is doing. Taunting Basil, because he knows. He knows of Basil’s _preferences_ , and is trying to make him look like a fool.

Basil knows he should leave. Get out of the bed and leave Simon to his theatrics without an audience. He knows he most certainly should not reach over and give Simon a hand…

Basil starts awake when he feels a familiar itch in his skull and finds that Simon’s somehow rolled towards him in the night. He’s practically on Basil’s pillow, snoring softly, and Basil’s head is filled with the scent of him. Blood and sweat and ale—and something distinctly _Simon_.

The scent has caused two unfortunate physical reactions in Basil, and he turns away quickly so he can hide and suppress them.

The itch in his skull subsides, among other things, but he doesn’t get another ounce of sleep all night.

* * *

Basil is standing over by the window when Simon wakes up. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is; the surroundings are wholly unfamiliar, but he has a vague memory of Basil dragging him up some stairs last night. Everything is fuzzy, though—his memories and thoughts, even his vision—so the antidote must have really done a number on him.

He sits up and rubs his eyes until his vision clears a little, and Basil glances over at him briefly before staring out the window again.

“Get dressed,” he says to Simon, without any hint of the compassion he had shown Simon yesterday. All of that must have been a fluke. “We cannot stay here much longer.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Simon grumbles as he lowers his feet to the floor. He has to mentally brace himself to stand; he still feels wobbly inside, as though he’ll topple over as soon as he’s vertical. But he manages to stand without incident, and sees his stained tunic strewn on the floor.

At first he doesn’t remember taking it off, and wonders if Basil did it for him—the back of his neck prickles at the thought of how oddly intimate that must have been—until his memory of last night comes slipping back into focus.

“Er—” he says, stopping to clear his throat. “If I, erm, said something, well, _inappropriate_ last night—”

“We will not be speaking of last night,” Basil says before he can finish. “Ever.”

His tone makes Simon think it must have been even worse than he remembers. “Well, ‘m sorry anyway,” he adds.

Basil glances at him one more time before turning towards the door. “I will wait for you out front,” he says when he reaches it. “But do hurry up.”

Simon watches the door shut behind Basil and then stares down at the bloody fabric in his hands. He wishes for something cleaner to wear, but he supposes he can’t be choosy right now. Besides, he’s been in worse states. There’s a jolt of pain in his shoulder when he lifts his arm to put the tunic on, but it subsides quickly. It seems it’s already made fair progress healing so far, thanks to Basil’s potions.

He finds the cloak Basil gave him to wear to hide his clothes, draped neatly over a chair at the side of the room. He’s certain he must not have been the one to put it there. He picks it up only to find a shirt folded beneath it, which he recognizes as the shirt Basil wore on the day they rode out to the farm. He doesn’t think Basil would have left it by mistake.

It’s cleaner than the tunic he’s got, and it is cut loose enough to fit him—unlike some of Basil’s shirts—so he swaps them out. Simon lifts one arm to his face and breathes in curiously. It still smells like Basil.

He puts on the cloak—he feels it might be improper to wear a shirt like this as outerwear, in public—and takes one last look around the room, in case he’s forgotten anything. He almost thinks he’s forgotten his sword until he remembers that he doesn’t carry one anymore; and the one he’d used against the delhiid was left at the scene. He imagines it could have come in handy now that he’s on the run.

When he steps out of the inn and into the morning sun, Simon is only mildly surprised that he doesn’t see Basil standing there, waiting for him. He knows it was ridiculous to ever trust him, but he’d sort of figured… Well, he figured things were different now. But they weren’t, were they? Basil probably just wanted to get Simon stranded somewhere that he’d be easy to find, and then send the Mummers guards after him.

Wearing Basil’s cloak might not be the most clever idea right now, he realizes. _Ah yes, there is the illegal magic-user who kidnapped a councilman’s son and stole his cloak._ He might as well hire a crier to further advertise his presence.

“Took your merry time, I see.”

Simon stops unfastening the cloak and whirls around to see Basil walking towards him from one of the nearby market stalls.

He’s still here.

“Er—Sorry,” is all Simon can manage to say in response.

“Here,” Basil adds, and tosses Simon an apple. “I picked up some things for our ride. But you should eat that now. You look about three seconds away from keeling over.”

Simon cradles the apple in his palms after fumbling to catch it, staring at Basil incredulously. He can’t tell if Basil is being sincerely considerate or if this is some kind of mockery, but if it means he gets to eat, then he’s not going to complain. Simon crunches a bite out of the apple and Basil turns, walking away at a brisk pace. It takes a moment for Simon to catch on that he’s meant to follow. Then it hits him.

“Hold on,” he says, swallowing the first large bite as he falls in step next to Basil. “Did you say _ride_?”

“I’ve procured us a horse,” Basil says, and they weave around patrons in the market.

“Singular?”

Basil side-eyes him. “Believe it or not, Snow, but my coin purse is limited,” he says. “It’s not as though I’d envisioned having to smuggle a fugitive across the country when I set out to visit my father’s farm.”

“But you’re usually so good at planning ahead,” Simon says as they come to a stop in front of one of the stalls. He watches Basil’s face for some sign of amusement, hoping they might now be peers who can trade humorous remarks instead of hurtful ones, but his face remains stoically firm.

“Show us the mare,” Basil says to the merchant at the stall, ignoring Simon completely. Simon continues munching on his apple instead.

The merchant leads them around the back of the stall and down a small alley. If this were Simon’s home village, there’s no way he would follow if he were Basil. But it’s not, and he’s not, and he thinks that, even with an injured arm and no weapon, he could take someone on if this turns into a mugging.

The alley opens onto another road shortly, not far from a stable. Simon watches the exchange as Basil pays the merchant for the horse, fascinated by the way Basil carries himself. He’s somehow forceful without being rude, which is not at all how he speaks to Simon. With Simon he’s either cold as ice or… Simon tries to wipe away the idea of Basil being _nice_ to him, since that clearly isn’t what was happening the past twenty-four hours. It is far more bizarre than that.

Besides, Basil is as cold as ever to him now.

“Do I just walk, then?” Simon asks as Basil climbs up into the saddle without so much as offering Simon a chance to ride instead, despite his injury.

“Don’t be absurd,” Basil snaps. “You’ll ride in back.”

“Why can’t I be the one with the reins, though?”

“With your shoulder?”

A phantom pain twinges in Simon’s arm as he thinks about trying to control a horse with it and he concedes that Basil has a point. With a bit of help, he gets himself up on the horse as well, though the saddle digs into his rear as it is not really meant for two grown men to share.

There is absolutely no way to ride like this without clinging to Basil, he realizes—but only once the horse has started moving and he nearly falls off. He instinctively reaches out, hooking his arms around Basil’s waist, before it crosses his mind that Basil could probably have him beheaded for this. Then again, Basil could have him beheaded for literally anything and hasn’t so far. Still, he loosens his grip once they reach a steady pace and he regains his balance. But he doesn’t dare let go completely.

Basil doesn’t make any sort of acknowledgement. He doesn’t say much of anything at all as they make their way out of town, staying off the main roads, even once they reach the countryside. The paths that connect smaller towns and farms, dotted between larger cities, are far less travelled than the major trade routes, which means less chance of running into palace guards.

It does, however, mean a greater chance of running into the sorts of creatures that Simon was once paid to eliminate. Basil has the horse pick up speed as they pass an old abandoned temple and cemetery that looks like it must be infested with Thantasma, since there’s no way Simon could handle them in his current state. Not that they really pose much of a threat—they aren’t corporeal—but it feels dreadful when they pass through the living.

Simon has no idea where they’re going and he’s not sure that Basil does either, but they ride for a while, barely exchanging a word. Simon finds himself nearly falling asleep when they slow down, passing some quiet farmland. The steady motion of the horse and unexpected sturdiness of Basil’s back put him at ease, and before he recognizes what he’s doing, he rests his head on Basil’s shoulder.

Simon can feel Basil’s posture stiffen when he does it, and he knows he’s gone too far, but his head is sluggish and his movements are slow and uncoordinated, and it takes him longer than it should for him to pull away.

“We need to find you somewhere to rest,” Basil says firmly, which is not the reaction Simon was expecting.

“Where’s the next town?” Simon asks, suppressing a yawn.

“Too far,” Basil replies. “There’s a house up ahead. I’ll see if we can pay them for a place to rest for the night.”

“It’s still early. The sun’s not even setting yet.”

“You need rest, Snow,” he says without a trace of sympathy in his voice. “You can't ride all day in your state.”

Simon wants to argue, but he also wants to rest his head on Basil’s shoulder again, so it stands to reason that Basil is probably right that he can’t ride all day.

His energy level is crashing—a side-effect of the antidote, Basil tells him—and Basil’s hair is in his face and it smells kind of nice and he’s so tired and he could probably just fall asleep right here.

* * *

Simon is startled when Basil brings the horse to stop; he didn’t realize they’d reached the house already. Upon closer inspection, however, it appears no one actually lives there. It’s a small place—more of a one-room hunting cabin than a proper house, but inside they find a bed and a fire stove, and a thankfully small number of dead rats. (Basil nudges them out the door with his foot, grimacing the entire time, but Simon is surprised he was willing to come into contact with them at all.)

“Sit,” Basil tells him, pointing at the bed. The crude bedding is full of holes with straw poking out, and it doesn’t look nearly as inviting to rest against as Basil’s back, but Simon does as he’s told and sits. Basil hands Simon a bread roll from his bag and Simon takes it without hesitation, tearing off a large chunk with his teeth.

As Simon attacks the bread he’s been given, Basil kicks over some debris in the corner of the room and uncovers a large metal pot, which he picks up and inspects, shaking dust off of it. “Wait here,” he says to Simon before heading back outside.

Simon doesn’t know where Basil is going, but he’s so tired he can barely keep chewing, let alone keep up with his worries.

The bread roll is gone by the time Basil returns with a pot full of water and an armful of firewood. Simon is more alert now, after eating, and he stands to help, but Basil tells him to sit again.

“No sense in you passing out on your feet,” he says bitterly, setting the pot of water next to the stove.

Simon sits with his back against the wall and his legs folded in front of him, watching curiously as Basil builds a small fire. It’s strange watching someone do things for him, for a change, and stranger still that the someone is _Basil Pitch_ , of all people.

He’s nearly started drifting off again when Basil finally stands, carrying the pot of warmed water over and setting it next to the bed. Simon wakes up a little more when Basil sits down.

“Come here,” Basil says without looking at Simon. Instead he rolls up his sleeves, and then reaches into his bag and pulls out a cloth, which he dunks into the pot of water.

Simon scoots to the edge of the bed until he’s practically sitting shoulder to shoulder with Basil, as the wet cloth drips into the pot below Basil’s hand. Basil finally looks at him, his expression as icy as ever.

“I need to clean your wound properly,” he says, his eyes flitting to Simon’s shoulder. “Or as properly as we can manage, for now.”

Simon blinks at him for a few seconds before it registers that he needs to take his shirt off first—Basil’s shirt, he remembers. He loosens the laces at the top and pulls it off over his head. Basil looks away again.

“Squeamish?” Simon asks jokingly, glancing down at the gash in his shoulder. It’s healed up a bit more now, but is still very clearly visible.

Basil doesn’t respond. He turns to Simon with his head lowered and starts dabbing gently at the wound with the damp cloth. There’s a slight sting at first, but Simon doesn’t really mind. Being taken care of, fussed over, is kind of… nice.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks in a small voice, after Basil’s moved on to cleaning the rest of his shoulder and arm.

“Because you’re injured,” Basil says flatly.

“I mean all of it,” Simon adds. “You could have revealed me to the Council months ago. And you hate me.”

Basil scoffs, a brief return to his haughty self instead of the cold, hard shell of a person he’s been all day. “I don’t _hate_ you,” he says. “You’re just a nuisance.”

“Right. So really. Why are you helping me?”

He stops wiping the dirt from Simon’s forearm and looks him in the eye. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Simon stares at Basil in disbelief—but, no, he believes him. For the first time, despite all that’s happened in the past two days, he believes that Basil doesn’t think he deserves to die.

His face feels warm, even though the sun is already setting and the fire hasn’t heated the cabin much yet, and he tries to say something—anything—in response, but Basil lowers his gaze and continues cleaning Simon’s arm in silence. When he moves onto Simon’s other side, he stops over the scar running down Simon’s neck and chest.

“Your scar…” Basil says, almost like a question, as he washes the dirt from Simon’s skin.

“Ah,” Simon says. He glances down at his chest and grins. “I fought a dragon.”

Basil gives him a pointed look. “Dragons are extinct,” he says, and Simon laughs.

“I know, but it sounds more impressive than the truth.”

“Which is?”

“I got it in a fight,” Simon replies, nervous for some reason. “A duel, I guess. In the Nox Tournament.” Basil freezes for a moment, but Simon carries on. “It was the semi-finals and I suppose I was getting a bit too confident…”

“Let me guess,” Basil says. “You ran in, sword swinging, trying to show off, and you got caught off-guard.”

Simon laughs again. “More or less,” he says. “I couldn’t afford much in the way of armour back then, but I must have let that slip my mind, because I got right up in this guy’s face without a second thought.”

“That sounds about right.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Simon adds with a shrug. “I made it to the finals, obviously.”

“Obviously…”

The two fall silent again, but Simon’s heart is beating loudly in his chest. He isn’t sure why it makes him nervous, Basil scrutinizing him like that. Basil scrutinized him all the time back at the palace, picking him apart and tearing him to shreds. He doesn’t know why it’s different now. Now, while Basil reaches across Simon’s chest to clean his other shoulder. The proximity makes Simon shiver.

Basil works silently to clear away most of the visible grime from the parts of Simon that are exposed, and then hands Simon the cloth and tells him he can clean the rest himself. Simon’s face starts to go red before Basil stands and he realizes that—of course—Basil hadn’t intended to stay and watch. Because that would have been… absurd.

Simon cleans up while Basil is out, and waits for him to return. The sky is all oranges and pinks as the sun dips lower, and Simon watches it through the window. Movement over by the creek draws his attention, and for a moment he thinks someone has found them. A figure emerges from the neighbouring tree line, and relief loosens the anxiety in his chest when he sees that it’s just Basil.

He’s not sure why Basil was amongst the trees, or why it took him so long to reach the creek, but he watches curiously as Basil crouches down and splashes water over his face. When Basil stands again, Simon assumes he’s about to return to the cabin, but he doesn’t turn around. The light outside is getting dim, so Simon has to squint to make out that Basil is undressing.

He leans back quickly, away from the window, since he’s not about to _watch_ Basil strip down and bathe in the creek. That would be absurd, too. And a violation of privacy. And disrespectful. And why would he even want to? He’s seen men bathing before. It’s not all that exciting, usually. There’s really no reason for him to lean forward again and look out the window…

The setting sun casts a warm glow, turning Basil’s ashy skin golden—more like the painted portraits of his mother, which Simon has seen at the palace. He’s always thought Basil most closely resembled his father, all sharp lines and stern features, but there’s a gracefulness about him sometimes—a softness, even—that Simon thinks must come from his mother. Not that she couldn’t also be stern, from what he’s heard. But it’s often said that she cared about people, in a way that Simon’s never seen from Malcolm or Basil. At least, not until recently.

He knows he shouldn’t have looked again. Even if he doesn’t get caught, he’ll still know that he crossed some sort of line. He’s always left the room when Basil bathes or dresses; he knows Basil wouldn’t want him to see this. But he just looks so alarmingly _human_ out there, without any pretences. Bare. Raw. Vulnerable. But also calm, assured, strong. In the face of adversity. In the face of the vast unknown.

Basil cups some water in his hands and pours it over his hair, running his hands through the lengths of it, and Simon feels something crash in his chest. It might be his heartbeat. Probably a side effect of the antidote. Rapid pulse, dry mouth, insatiable curiosity. Yes, it must be the antidote. Or the venom. There has to be an explanation for why he feels so… absurd.

He leans away from the window again and lies all the way back on the bed, curling towards the wall to try and will himself to sleep before Basil returns. The last thing he needs is for his guilt to be written all over his face when Basil gets in.

For the first time in hours, though, he doesn’t feel tired at all.

* * *

Simon is still facing the wall when Basil returns. Basil doesn’t say anything; he probably thinks Simon is asleep. Simon doesn’t say anything either.

He hears Basil cross the room and sit next to the fire stove that’s still timidly burning. Several minutes pass before Basil moves again, and Simon looks over his shoulder to see him pushing things out of his way and laying out his jacket.

“You’re not going to sleep there, are you?” Simon asks, which must surprise Basil because he looks up at him with a start.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” He looks offended.

“I just… haven’t been able to yet,” Simon replies honestly. “But you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“You are injured, Snow,” Basil says, like he’s telling Simon he’s defective. “Neither can you.”

Simon sighs and turns so his back is pressed as close to the wall as he can get, leaving a space in the bed next to him that’s barely wide enough for another person.

“Absolutely not,” Basil says before Simon can even offer.

“You’ll freeze down there,” Simon tells him. “If you come up here and drape your cloak over us, we might make it through the night with all our toes.”

“It is not _that_ cold.”

“Basil Pitch doesn’t sleep on the floor, does he?”

“Basil Pitch does not share beds with servants, either,” Basil says. “Or _Nox Knights_.”

“Now, we both know that’s a lie,” Simon teases. “After last night.”

“I am still your societal superior in every sense, Snow.”

“You’re saying you want to be the big spoon, then?”

Basil doesn’t seem to find that amusing.

Simon sighs again. “ _Master Pitch_ ,” he says in a drawn out voice, “as your oh-so-humble servant, it is my duty to ensure that you do not freeze to death next to a pile of rat droppings, and if that means we have to share an uncomfortably small bed, then so be it.”

Basil turns his head toward the dwindling flame before lowering it in defeat. “Fine,” he grits out, and pushes himself to his feet. He picks up his cloak on his way over to the bed and then stands there, staring at the space next to Simon as though he doesn’t know what happens next.

“I’m as far over as I can get,” Simon says.

Basil’s jaw is tense as he inspects the bed another moment, then climbs in with his back to Simon and the cloak draped over himself. Simon is surprised to find he’s been holding his breath, and lets it out in an embarrassing gust against the back of Basil’s neck. Thankfully his hair is still too wet to be disturbed by it.

Simon stops himself from resting his arm over Basil, which is what he instinctively wants to do. His arm’s already slightly lifted by the time he does stop it, though, and he’s not sure what to do with it, so he folds up and tucks it against his chest, his knuckles brushing the back of Basil’s shirt as he does. He expects Basil to snap at him for that, but nothing happens.

It’s too dark for him to see Basil’s back in front of him, but he can feel the presence of it there, so close he might bump it if he inhales fully, He thinks back to the ride up here on horseback—which feels like it was days ago, not hours—and how nice it felt to be pressed against Basil’s back. Steady. Grounded. Secure.

It’s a ridiculous notion, he knows. Nothing about his current situation should make him feel secure about anything. Certainly not Basil. But it’s been so long since he’s been that close to anyone, he’d forgotten how much he missed it. Human contact. Proximity. Intimacy. Not that there is anything _intimate_ about them, of course, but it reminded him of all those things he’s not felt in a long time.

He inches his hand forward, ever so slightly, until his knuckles brush against Basil’s back again. Basil still doesn’t say anything. So he doesn’t take his hand away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great expectations, winged creatures, and an exciting elixir.

Basil is gone when Simon wakes up.

He finds he’s surprised this time. He’d actually started to trust Basil. He thought they might actually be in this together.

“Fuck,” Simon grumbles to himself as he sits up, rubbing his eyes drearily.

“Aren’t you just ray of sunshine this morning,” Basil says drily when he walks in with something tucked under his arm.

“You’re… here.” Simon blinks at him, like he can’t believe his own eyes, but Basil frowns. He looks as though he hasn’t slept in days. Life on the road has really started to take its toll on him.

“Hoping for someone else, were you?” Basil says, depositing a cloth full of berries in Simon’s hands when Simon lowers his feet to the floor.

“Are these—”

“Edible? Yes,” Basil says. “They’re also useful in some remedies for ailments, though I don’t think delhiid venom is one of them.”

Simon pops a berry in his mouth and grins at the pleasant burst of juice on his tongue. “They’re good,” he says.

“We don’t have much in the way of food today, but at least there are a few things nearby we can scavenge,” Basil adds, laying out a few things on the nearby table. A couple more bread rolls and apples, and another cloth full of berries. “We might have to hunt for something more substantial, though.”

Simon looks at him skeptically. “ _You_ can hunt?”

Basil faces him with a blank expression. “Small game,” he says. “Enough for tonight, anyway.”

“Tonight?” Simon asks. “Are we staying here?”

“The venom is still working its way out of your system,” Basil says. “You can’t travel like that. You nearly fell off the horse yesterday.”

Simon scoffs indignantly.

“One more day of rest and then we carry on,” Basil adds. “It might give us some time to formulate a plan, too.”

“A plan for what?”

“For what we intend to do,” he says. “I’d rather not be on the run, foraging for berries and bathing in streams for the rest of my life.”

Simon’s face gets warm again as the image of Basil in the stream returns to him, but he pushes the thought aside. “Do you have any ideas, then?” he asks.

Basil sits on a crooked stool across from him. “Not much, no,” he says. “I’ve seen maps of Hellarium, but I’ve not travelled around the country much. I’m not sure where we could go to find aid, or even who might aid us at all.”

“You’ll want to get back to the palace, though, right?” Simon pops another berry in his mouth.

“Perhaps,” Basil replies, his eyes downcast. “I—I’m not sure what’s left there for me, to be honest.”

“No one has to know you helped me,” Simon says.

Basil shakes his head. “It’s not that. I have… responsibilities. Expectations. Roles I’m meant to fill one day, and I’m not sure if…”

“Not sure if…?”

“If I want to,” Basil says, lifting his gaze to meet Simon’s. There’s no ice in his eyes this time, only exhaustion. “My father…” he begins, looking away again. “He took my mother’s seat on the Council. Of course, the Council served the Queen, when my mother was alive; it wasn’t a governing body on its own. But the lineage is still important.”

Simon nods, trying to follow along.

“That seat is meant to be mine,” Basil continues. “When I’m twenty-six, actually.”

“Is that… soon?” Simon asks. Basil nods.

“Less than a year,” he says. “My father wants me to take the seat, even. He says it’s meant for the House of Pitch. He thinks my name will carry more weight than his, that we’ll have more political power against the Mage’s agenda.”

“And what agenda is that? Fair representation and policies for the people?”

Basil laughs mirthlessly. “He only wants power, just like any of them,” he says, and then meets Simon’s gaze again, this time more piercingly. “Why do you think a mage— _The_ Mage—would restrict the use of magic?”

“So it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands,” Simon says defensively. “So people don’t hurt themselves. Or others.”

“Whose hands are the wrong hands, Simon? Whose are the _right_ hands? The Nox Knights, trained to kill anything that doesn’t fit the Council’s worldview? The town healers that charge a small fortune for their remedies, ensuring that only the wealthy may be healed?” Basil’s voice grows louder as he speaks, though Simon’s stomach has hooked onto one word.

Basil called him _Simon_. Not as a threat, merely an acknowledgement.

“You literally saved my life with magic,” Basil adds, his tone softer and more desperate, “and my father, upon witnessing it, rode off to find someone to arrest you. Because you’re _just a servant_.”

Simon hadn’t really thought about all of this before. He always thought the magic laws were a bit ridiculous, of course, but he’s a registered user, so it never really affected him. Until now.

“It’s the one thing my father and the Mage agree on,” Basil says, lowering his head. “My father is disgusted by all magic, though. Says it breeds evil. Thantasma and sorcerers and vampires…”

Simon swallows a difficult lump in his throat. “Because vampires killed your mother?” he asks quietly. Basil nods but doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It is not your fault,” Basil says, brushing dirt off his sleeve.

“I know, but…” Simon doesn’t know what to say to that.

“The Mage was the one who was supposed to protect the palace,” Basil adds. “It was his job to make sure the wards and spells were in place, and to appoint the palace’s Nox Knights, to keep the evil out.”

“So what happened?”

“No one knows for sure. He claims the vampires overpowered his spells, that there were too many for the Nox to handle, but… All witnesses to the event are dead now, so I suppose we’ll never know.”

“You…” Simon begins slowly. “You weren’t there when it happened?”

Basil stares at him with an impossible to read expression. “All the witnesses are dead now,” he says. “Besides, I was young. I don’t remember much about those years.”

They both fall silent as Simon takes in all of this information. But a question burns through him.

“Has the Mage always been in charge of appointing the palace Nox Knights?” he asks. “I mean, is he still in charge?”

“I believe so,” Basil replies, eyeing him warily.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lowers his voice, as if there’s anyone around who might overhear him. “A few years ago, I signed on for a chance to train as an apprentice, in order to become a Nox Knight for the palace,” he says.

Basil looks unsurprised. “I know.”

Simon is about to ask how when it occurs to him that Basil knows he was captured in Terrada—and somehow knows he’s a Nox Knight—and he obviously pieced it together. “Right, yeah,” Simon adds, shaking his head clear. “So, like anyone else looking to train, I came to the palace to compete for a spot.”

“One would assume, yes.” Basil’s tone suggests that he wishes Simon would get to a point soon.

“Well, the council members were the ones who selected the competitors, yeah? Decide where they will train,” Simon says. “ _The Mage is the one who selected me_.” He adds the last part in nearly a whisper.

Basil frowns. “The Mage chose _you_? Personally?”

Simon nods. “He called me forward and asked for my name and made me his candidate.”

“And yet he did not recognize you now?” Basil asks.

“I mean, it’s not as though I spent a lot of time with him during the competition, or anything… But he remembered my name and shook my hand when I’d won. Before he sent me to Terrada. Said their training was the best, that I deserved it. I thought… Well, I guess I thought he might take note of the apprentices he sends there. That he’d offer me a place to work in the palace when I returned.”

“He did, technically,” Basil says, and Simon almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I never expected him to look me in the eye without a hint of recognition,” he says. “Though I suppose it saved my life, so I can’t really complain…”

Basil looks down pensively, and a quiet falls over the cabin, surrounding them with the faint whisper of the wind blowing through the cracks in the wall. The morning light streaming through the window hits his face when he leans forward.

Simon is staring at him, expecting him to say something—clearly something is on his mind—when Simon notices it. The darkened skin on Basil’s nose and the tops of his cheeks, like a light burn. They rode in the sun a long time yesterday, it stands to reason that he could have burned. But it doesn’t look like a sunburn; it looks like his skin was burned with ash.

Skin burning to ash in the sun is one of the signs Simon learned in his training. But he shoves that thought down. He’s tired, his eyes may not see things as they truly are right now. Because otherwise he would have to think…

He knows that Basil will not hurt him; he would have by now if he’d wanted to. So it stands to reason that he can’t be a vampire. If he were, how would Simon wake up every morning next to him, unscathed? A skin condition or trick of the light cannot overturn what he already knows; Basil is just a man. Although Basil may possess some superficial vampiric traits, Simon has glimpsed what lies beneath the surface, and it isn’t monstrous or evil.

Basil stands abruptly, startling Simon out of his thoughts. “You should get up,” he says, adjusting his riding jacket. “You’ll need to stretch your legs if we want any chance of riding again tomorrow.”

“Er, right. Yeah.” Simon eases himself to his feet—he’s still a little wobbly from the venom or the antidote—and follows Basil out the door.

* * *

“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?” Simon asks Basil, seated on the floor across from him, the small fire stove lit between them and warming their fronts.

“What could have given you that idea?” Basil quips, and Simon knows he’s not being sincere, but he takes the opening anyway.

“You look really run down these days,” he says, and Basil huffs. “And you’re not being quite as… well, _you_ , as usual.”

Basil looks over at him with tired, exasperated eyes. And no biting remark. Thereby proving Simon’s point.

“You should have the bed to yourself tonight,” Simon adds. “My shoulder’s feeling a lot better, and I’m used to sleeping in less than ideal conditions—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Snow,” Basil says. “If you strain your arm in your sleep, we’ll be stuck here another two days. It’s not worth it.”

“Is there anything I can do, then?” Simon asks.

Basil eyes him with distrust. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you know, to help you sleep. To make you more comfortable. Less stressed. Less—I don’t know. Fix whatever the problem is.”

“The problem is that my life has turned to shit before my very eyes, and trying to sleep with you snoring in my ear is not helping,” Basil says bitterly, and rubs his fingers against his temples. “No, I—You don’t actually snore. Much. That’s not what—This is all just… a lot to deal with right now.”

Simon is stunned into silence. He’s never seen Basil this open before. This exposed, raw, vulnerable. Well, except for…

“There’s nothing you can do, in any case,” Basil adds quietly.

“Do you…” Simon starts to ask, before he can think better of it. “Back at the palace, did you—Erm…”

“Did I _what_ , Snow?”

He knows he should back out of this while he can, but the question is burning up inside of him, urging him to keep going. “Did you have a—” He struggles to find a suitable word, and blurts the first one he can think of. “— _Companion_?”

Basil sits up straighter, drawing his head back in—what? Surprise? Disgust? Horror? “Did I have a _companion_?” he asks.

“I mean, I know you weren’t courting Agatha,” Simon adds quickly, as if continuing to babble will fix things. “But were you—”

“I wasn’t courting _anyone_ , Snow,” Basil says. “You should know that, you followed me everywhere.”

 _Not at night_ , Simon thinks.

“Right, but, I mean, courtship isn’t the only…” Simon trails off, struggling again to find the words. “Some people thought—” He cuts himself off before he can say, _“Some people thought that I was your lover and I don’t know what to make of that.”_

“Some people thought you might have had… someone,” he finally says. “Someone, er, special.”

“Special?”

“You know…” He looks down at his hand pressed against the wood floor beside him. “Someone you could… share your bed with.”

When Simon lifts his gaze to Basil’s face, he’s unable to read the expression. Whatever Basil’s thinking, though, he’s certainly not amused.

“I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours,” Basil says, and Simon lowers his head again.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just— I thought maybe if there was someone you were comfortable sharing a bed with, maybe I could—”

“Pretend to be them?” Basil snaps.

Simon’s face flushes. “No, I just mean— If there’s something I could do that would— I don’t know, I just—”

“I’ve never shared my bed with anyone before,” Basil says, practically mumbling, his voice is so low. Simon looks back at him with his eyes wide and Basil shakes his head. “My _literal bed_ , Snow. That is what you were talking about, is it not? Or were you suggesting something different and wholly inappropriate?”

Simon feels his face redden even more. “No…” he says meekly. Only now a million more questions are burning away inside him, but he holds his tongue.

* * *

Simon wakes to the feeling of a back pressed firmly against his chest and a person moving under his arm. He wraps his arm tighter around them, holding them close. It’s only when he pushes his hips forward that it registers; this isn’t right.

He opens his eyes to see black strands of hair in front of him, and the person in his arms is wriggling free of his grasp. Because it’s not just a pleasant dream, it’s _Basil fucking Pitch_. Whom Simon has just hugged and— Well, his actions could likely be construed as _wholly inappropriate_.

“Enjoying yourself, there, Snow?” Basil asks once he’s standing, brushing wrinkles out of his clothes.

“Sorry,” Simon mutters, sitting up slowly and scratching his head. “Was an accident.”

“What, did you mistake me for one of your whores you can just get your leg over to relieve yourself like a dog?” Basil says, though there’s a familiar mocking tone to his voice that suggests he must have slept better than he has in days.

Simon smiles and looks up at him. “You underestimate me if you think I’ve ever had to pay for it,” he says brazenly.

“And you underestimate me if you think I won’t wring your neck for your insolence,” Basil replies, and Simon is almost relieved by this level of repartee.

He puts on a fake pout. “But I’m injured.”

Basil rolls his head to the side, exasperated, then gestures for Simon to stand. “Get up,” he says, and Simon does. Basil grabs his good shoulder and brings him closer so he can push back the neckline of his shirt and inspect the wound, without any of the tenderness or concern he had when he inspected it the first time. “Looks like it’s healing nicely,” he adds. “We should be good to travel today.”

“Do we know where we’re going?” Simon asks, pulling his shirt closed when Basil lets go and steps away.

“Northeast seems like the best idea,” Basil says. “If we can get you into Ypsillonia, you might have a better chance.”

“Wouldn’t I need papers for that?”

“One step at a time, Snow. We won’t reach the border for days.” He packs up his supplies in his bag and swings it over his shoulder.

Simon is about to ask if they can pause to eat something before they head out, but Basil hands him a bread roll before he has the chance.

“It’s the last one until we find a town,” Basil says.

Simon bites into it gratefully, even though it’s a little stale, thinking the day might actually be off to a decent start.

* * *

The sun is high in the sky by the time Basil and Simon decide to take a rest on their journey. They’ve been avoiding the main roads again, but they keep coming across them more and more frequently, suggesting they must be getting close to a proper city. Cutting their own paths through the forest, though, has proven difficult. Their horse is exhausted and Simon has been snagged by a branch on more than one occasion.

There are other risks to staying off the main roads, however, which become abundantly clear when their horse gets spooked and runs off while they pause to sit under a tree, eating some berries that Basil managed to find nearby. The loud squawking noise in the trees overhead confirms Simon’s suspicions. Scliera Volari.

Only a pair of them, by the sounds of it, but when Simon is unarmed and worn out, that might be more than he can handle.

Simon clamps a hand down on Basil’s shoulder and leans in to speak quietly. “Without making any sudden moves, we need to get out of here. _Now_.”

“The horse—” Basil says when Simon stands, but Simon grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet.

“Forget the horse, just _go_.”

The rustling in the trees gets closer as they get to their feet, and Simon starts sprinting down the path they took to get here, still holding Basil’s arm and dragging him along. The squawking gets louder, and one of the volari swoops down in front of them, scratching at Simon’s face.

He swats it away and picks up a fallen branch to swing at it and knock it out of the air. This would be much more effective with a sword, he thinks, but he might be able to hold them off long enough for Basil to get away.

“Go!” he calls out, smacking Basil on the back with one hand as he swings the branch around again with the other.

“I’m not leaving you here!” Basil shouts, and he picks up a branch himself. It looks heavier than Simon’s, but he swings it as though it weighs nothing.

“I could throw fire if we weren’t in a fucking forest!” Simon says as the other volari descends on them.

“It might come to that” Basil swings again and sends one flying into a tree trunk. The other one dives at him and claws at his face, tearing open a gash below his left eye.

Simon whips his branch around and smacks the volari to the ground, but it quickly rights itself and rises up beyond Simon’s reach. It screeches again before taking a dive at him, and he puts everything he has into a swing that knocks it right into a tangle of tree branches where it gets stuck, momentarily. Long enough for Simon to throw down his makeshift weapon, grab Basil’s arm yet again, and run until his legs burn.

They break through the trees at the edge of the main road, where they stop to catch their breath. The creatures out in these parts are wise enough to avoid the roads, too, so Simon feels assured that they are out of harm’s way. For now.

“I guess we’re sticking to the road now,” he says as his heart rate starts to even out and he can stand up straight again. Without the burst of adrenaline from the fight, though, his shoulder is screaming at him. He clamps his hand over it and starts walking.

“Simon—” Basil says, but the sound of riders down the road silences them both. Basil takes Simon’s arm this time and they dash across the road and into the trees on the other side—the trees that _may_ not be infested with volari. Basil must think that the risk is better than getting caught by Watford guards, and Simon would have to agree.

Basil pulls Simon behind a large tree and they stand side by side, their shoulders pressed together and their backs pressed to the tree, holding their breath as the riders pass.

When the horses’ steps start to recede, Basil leans across Simon and looks around the side of the tree. His hand is on Simon’s good shoulder and their chests are nearly flush against each other. Simon wonders if Basil can feel his heart hammering away in his chest.

“Not from the palace,” Basil says finally, turning his attention to Simon, whom he’s somewhat trapped against the tree. “Can’t be too careful, though.”

Simon notices the trail of blood running down the side of Basil’s face and brings his hand up to hover over it. “Are you okay?” he asks, staring at the scrape. It doesn’t look serious enough to be concerned, but it’s likely to leave a scar if he doesn’t get something for it.

Basil takes Simon’s hand and lowers it away from his face, then pulls open the right side of Simon’s shirt, ignoring the question. “You’re hurt,” he says.

“That’s old news,” Simon says with a laugh, more of a nervous response than anything else. “Your face, that’s new.”

Basil shakes his head. “Your wound’s opened again,” he says. “It’s not going to heal properly like this.”

“It’s fine,” Simon says. He tries to shrug it off, but he winces at the pain in his shoulder once again.

“We need to find a proper healer,” Basil says. “You need Salve of Ravi, and I don’t know how to make that.”

Simon watches the intent look on Basil’s face as he inspects Simon’s injury, mesmerized. “Alright,” he says, his heart still hammering away in his chest.

* * *

After cleaning up as best they can, Basil and Simon follow the road into town. Basil has never been to Eryling before, but he’s learned about it in his studies. The second largest city in Hellarium, after Watford (if you count Upper and Lower Watford as one city, which some people do not).

It’s not exactly the most unexpected place for them to go while on the run, but the sheer size of the city means, if they lay low, they’d be hard to find even if his father’s men came looking for them here.

He gets them a room at a grubby-looking inn near the edge of town, some place no one would ever expect to find a Councilman’s son, let alone the Heir to the House of Pitch.

They eat their fill in the dining hall before heading up to their room, where Basil instructs Simon to wait for him.

“Where are you going?” Simon asks, refusing to just _sit down and rest_ , despite his injury getting worse.

“To get you that salve,” Basil says impatiently.

“I’ll come with you—”

“You will not. Wait here. And do not make anything worse while I’m gone.”

Simon looks like he wants to protest, but Basil leaves before he has a chance. It’s for his own good. Basil knows he’ll be much less conspicuous on his own—now that he’s cleaned most of the blood off his face, at least.

He feels perfectly fine, despite the scrape on his cheek. He thinks it may have already started to heal.

Basil manages to navigate his way around town without looking like someone who is lost and ripe for mugging, and finds a healer’s shop near the main square. The smell that hits him when he walks in reminds him of his mother’s study, back when he was a small child, and a wave of nostalgia and nausea hits him hard.

“Can I help you, love?” asks the woman seated behind the counter, smiling. She appears to be doing needlework while she waits for customers.

“Yes, I hope so,” Basil says after clearing his throat. “I’m looking for some Salve of Ravi.”

She wrinkles her brow at him but keeps smiling. “For the wee cut ‘low your eye?” she says. “You’d be fine with a much milder healing balm for that.”

“No, it’s for my… friend,” he replies. “A nasty wound and it’s not healing properly.”

“Well, we’ve got some o’ that Ravi stuff here,” she says, “but it’s strong. Hurts like a demon’s handshake, that one.”

“I know. I was hoping I could get him some…” He clears his throat again. “Some Eupripria, to help with the pain.”

The woman’s smile turns into more of a knowing smirk and she rests her arms on the counter, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “You don’t hafta come in here with all that salve pretence,” she says with a wink. “No judging from me, love. If you need a little ‘pria, all’s you hafta do is ask. We’re very discreet about our customers’ business ’round here.”

Basil tenses his jaw as his face heats up with embarrassment. “I assure you, the salve is my primary concern,” he says. “I only wish to make it less painful for my… friend.”

She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll get both of those bottled up for you, love.”

* * *

Basil thinks Simon might be sleeping, despite the fact that he’s sitting upright at the head of the large bed in their room, but his eyes open when Basil walks in and shuts the door.

“Took you long enough,” Simon says, looking worn out from the day they’ve had. Or days.

“I got your salve, so quit complaining,” Basil says. He walks around the side of the bed and takes both bottles out of his bag, setting them on the table next to Simon.

“What’s that one, then?” Simon asks, pointing at the taller bottle.

“It’s Eupripria,” Basil says. “To help with the pain.”

“I’m not in that much pain, actually—”

“For the Salve of Ravi. It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

Simon picks up the tall bottle and examines it. “Isn’t Eupripria the stuff people use to—”

“Yes,” Basil cuts in, tensing his jaw again. “But it has medicinal purposes as well.”

“Clearly,” Simon says, and Basil looks over to see him smirking a little.

“You don’t have to use it,” Basil says, snatching the bottle from his hand and putting it back on the table. “But it’s there for you if you decide you’d rather not be screaming in pain all night.”

“I doubt I could go _all_ night,” Simon replies flippantly. Basil snatches up the bottle again, like he’s going to put it back in his bag, but Simon pushes his hand back down. “Whoa, whoa, okay, alright. I’ll take the Eupripria, if the salve is really that painful.”

Basil pulls his hand away but sets the bottle back down anyway. “Fine,” he says tersely. “You should get comfortable, then.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning you need to make sure that nothing around you could harm or injure you, because you won’t feel the pain of it until it’s too late,” Basil snaps.

Simon appears mildly concerned. “Alright, yeah, I’ll…” He looks around where he’s sitting and starts positioning pillows and cushions around himself, like a nest.

“You’ll need to stay like that for several hours,” Basil tells him and he nods.

“I feel great,” he says.

“Wonderful,” Basil says drily, and hands Simon the bottle. “Start slow with it. Just a sip or two. You might still be hypersensitive to intoxication.”

Simon opens it and tips a couple of glugs of it into his mouth. He smacks his lips together afterwards. “Strange aftertaste,” he says, grimacing a little. “Not as bad as the delhiid antidote, though.”

Basil tells him to give it a minute and see if there’s any effect. Simon claims he doesn’t feel it at all, and takes another swig, only this time he sighs happily at the taste of it.

“Seems like it’s working, then,” Basil says, and he puts the bottle out of Simon’s reach.

“Mm, it’s so _good_ , though,” Simon says, dropping his head back against the pillows stacked up behind him.

“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Basil picks up the Salve of Ravi and checks the label on the jar for any instructions, though the healer told him everything he needs to know. Apply it in thin layers, with clean hands, working it into the affected area carefully.

Basil steps away, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, so he can clean his hands in the basin across the room, but he hears Simon pick up the jar himself.

“D’you think this one tastes good too?” he asks, unscrewing the lid. Basil rushes over, hands still dripping wet, to take it from him before he tries to eat it.

Basil huffs, drying off his hands. “Take your shirt off,” he tells Simon as he finishes rolling up his own sleeves.

“As you wish, _Baz_ ,” Simon replies. He snickers and fumbles with the laces of his shirt before pulling it off over his head. “ _Wow_ ,” he says with a sigh.

“What?” Basil asks.

“Air feels really good. Did you know that?” Simon looks down at his chest. “Like, my skin is just… Wow.” He runs his hands over it and Basil clears his throat loudly to get his attention.

Basil sits at the edge of the bed and angles himself towards Simon, trying to ignore the blissed out look on his face as he keeps feeling his own skin like it’s some sort of revelation. “Stop fidgeting,” Basil tells him. Simon lowers his hands shyly and curls them into fists at his sides.

“Tell me if it’s too painful,” Basil says when he scoops a small amount of salve out of the jar with his fingers. He slowly brings his hand down over Simon’s injured shoulder, giving him ample time to protest, but Simon is just smiling at him.

He hisses when Basil’s hand makes contact, though, and Basil jerks it back.

“Too much?” he asks, but Simon shakes his head.

“Surprised me, is all,” he says. “Keep going, it’s fine.”

Basil lowers his hand again, but this time when he touches Simon’s shoulder, Simon relaxes into it. “Better?” Basil asks.

Simon’s eyes flutter shut and he smiles a little. “Mmyeah.”

Basil rubs the first layer of salve into Simon’s skin gently, not wanting to cause any more damage to the area. Simon seems to be enjoying it, though. The sounds he’s making are practically indecent and highly distracting, and Basil forces himself to focus on the task at hand instead of staring at Simon’s open mouth or the line of his neck when he tips his head back and sighs deeply. He knows this is just the effect of the Eupripria, that nothing about this is actually _enjoyable_ for either of them. Simon seems unaware of this, however.

“Wait,” Simon says, grabbing Basil’s wrist as he’s about to apply the final layer. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck, I’m—”

Basil follows Simon’s gaze downward and understands the problem. He snaps his gaze back up to Simon’s shoulder quickly. “I’m almost finished,” Basil says tightly as heat rises in his face.

“Yeah, me too,” Simon says with a nervous laugh.

“The Salve of Ravi needs three applications, or it won’t be as effective,” Basil explains, though he wishes nothing more than to run away at this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Simon adds, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know why it—It feels really—”

“I know. That’s how Eupripria works,” Basil says. “It makes pain feel like pleasure, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but should it be _this_ pleasurable?” Simon says, laughing again, almost like he’s delirious.

“I won’t hold any of this against you, Snow. But I need to finish treating your wound or it won’t heal.”

Simon swallows showily and nods. “Yeah, alright,” he says, but he squeezes his eyes shut again when Basil presses a hand to his shoulder.

Basil works as quickly as he can while Simon mutters indecipherably under his breath, like he’s chanting something to himself. As soon as he finishes up, Basil is up and across the room to clean his hands again before Simon’s situation can get any worse.

Simon is still chanting under his breath when Basil turns to face him again.

“Are you going to be alright?” Basil asks, trying to sound more irritated than concerned.

“I think that depends,” Simon replies, holding a cushion over his lap with one hand and pushing the other through his hair in frustration.

“On what, exactly?”

Simon looks over at Basil but quickly looks away again. “Whether or not I can— Well…”

“Shall I find you a woman, then?” Basil says mockingly. “If you pay her, you won’t even have to reveal your true identity as a Nox.”

“Fuck you,” Simon replies, but he laughs a little.

“Hmm, let’s call that Plan B.”

Simon laughs again. “Okay—Fuck—I can deal with this myself if—”

“If I leave?” Basil offers.

“Unless you’d rather stay and watch,” Simon says jokingly.

Baz clenches his jaw at the insinuation and heads for the door. “I am going to have a drink. Don’t make a mess,” he says, swinging the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

When he gets downstairs, he goes right out the front door of the inn and around back to the alley that runs behind it, to get himself a drink.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boredom, scheming, and piqued curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains scenes of a sexual nature that are not graphic or explicit, but are not exactly fade-to-black either.

Simon doesn’t remember falling asleep last night, but he figures it must have been shortly after the, well, _Salve of Ravi_ incident. He’s embarrassed about it, of course, but that Eupripria was quite powerful and there wasn’t really anything he could do to help it.

When he wakes up, Basil is nowhere to be found, which doesn’t really alarm him anymore. Until he realizes it doesn’t look like Basil’s been back in the room at all. His bag isn’t here, but Simon can’t remember if Basil took it with him when he left last night. But he can tell the other half of the bed hasn’t been slept in last night. The pillowcase doesn’t smell like Basil or anything.

His first thought is that Basil’s been kidnapped, which he realizes is a departure from his usual first assumption, that Basil has simply left him stranded here. He doesn’t think that’s the case anymore.

He gets out of the bed slowly—he’s still a bit muzzy from last night—and gets dressed. He’s lacing up his boots and trying to come up with a plan to find him when Basil walks in.

“Where have you been?” Simon asks, stomping over to him and getting up in his face.

Basil backs up in surprise and then frowns, sidestepping Simon to set his bag down on a table. “I went for a walk,” he says, as though it’s nothing.

“ _All night?_ ”

“Twenty minutes.” He gives Simon a curious look. “Did you think I’ve been gone all night?”

Simon tries to replace his embarrassment with indignation. “Well, you didn’t sleep in the bed!”

Basil’s jaw shifts. “No, I didn’t,” he says. “I slept on the bench by the window.”

“Why?”

“I thought you might… want some space.”

Simon struggles to keep the embarrassment back. “I’m—I wasn’t—I’m not—”

“We don’t have time for your stammering, Snow,” Basil says as he shoves the rest of his things into his bag. “We have a big day ahead of us.”

“A big day of what?” Simon asks as he follows Basil out the door.

“First, we need to get new clothes. We look like vagrants that robbed and murdered a nobleman,” Basil says. He takes the stairs faster than Simon, and Simon hops over the last two steps to catch up—his energy’s coming back to him. “Next, we make a new plan.”

“A plan for what, now?”

“A plan for getting back to Watford,” Basil says when he stops and faces Simon, “so we can overthrow the Mage.”

* * *

Basil makes his way through the streets of the city like he’s lived here all his life, even though he’s only been here for a day. He finds a tailor’s shop that sells rejects and manages to get a bargain on some slightly imperfect new garments for the both of them, to help them blend in around town.

“I’m surprised you still have coin left,” Simon tells Basil once they leave the shop in their new outfits. “With the inns and the potions and the horse…” There’s a pang of guilt in his chest when he thinks about the horse they lost in the woods—despite the fact that she didn’t seem to like him very much—and hopes she managed to find her way to someone who will care for her.

“I have some,” Basil says, adjusting his collar stiffly. “I had to trade some things this morning, though.”

“What did you trade?”

“Some ingredients and trinkets and such,” he says. “Most of it wasn’t important.”

Another pang of guilt. “Most of it?”

Basil tenses his jaw and fusses with the cuffs of his new shirt. “It will be worth it,” he says, almost like he’s assuring himself more than Simon.

“Basil—” Simon begins, but a motion in his peripheral vision catches his attention and he looks past Basil towards the market stalls, where a couple of armed men in Mummers armour are questioning a vendor. Simon recognizes one of them as Malcolm’s personal guard.

“Shit!” he hisses, grabbing Basil’s wrist and dragging him aside into a nearby alleyway. He knows that full-out running away would draw too much attention, but he walks as quickly as he can down the alley and pushes Basil against a door.

“What are you—” Basil tries to ask, but Simon clamps his hand over Basil’s mouth and presses himself up against him so that they’re both hidden by the deep-set doorframe.

“I saw some of your father’s men in the market,” Simon says, whispering in Basil’s ear. Basil’s eyes widen but then he nods, and Simon lowers his hand, letting it rest against Basil’s chest.

He doesn’t know what their next move should be, but they can’t just stand here all day. Partly because it’s impractical, and partly because Simon feels awkward being this close to Basil after his reaction to the Eupripria last night. And he most certainly should not be thinking about it right now.

He glances down at the hand he absently left on Basil’s chest, then back up at his face, only to find Basil staring back at him. His heart pounds in his ears and he swallows.

He notices the mark on Basil’s face, where the volari attacked him, and how it’s nearly healed up already. “Bas—”

The door opens suddenly and the two of them go toppling inside, nearly crashing into the very put-together older woman who opened it. Thankfully she manages to sidestep them before they land on the floor of her… home? Business? Simon isn’t sure where they are as he gets to his feet. He offers Basil a hand up, but Basil ignores him.

“Sorry,” Simon says to the woman. “We didn’t mean to—”

“Nothing to fret over, love,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Come on in and make yourselves comfy.”

They follow her through the entryway, and Simon very quickly becomes aware of the fact that this is a brothel. Well, it’s only a guess on his part, as he’s never been inside one, but the number of barely dressed women sitting around on various furniture and trying not to look bored definitely gives Simon that impression. That and the handful of men who’ve found women to sit with them. Or on them.

One woman gets up from a man’s lap and takes his hand to lead him up the stairs at the back. Simon looks at Basil, hoping to convey through forced eye contact that they need to get out of here, but Basil seems unfazed by it all. He seems even more bored than the women.

When he finally meets Simon’s gaze, he lifts an eyebrow. “Alright, Snow?” he asks. “You seem a bit flustered. I’d have thought you’d be used to this sort of thing.”

“I already told you I don’t pay for it,” Simon replies through his teeth.

The older woman invites them to have a seat, and before Simon can say that they were just about to leave, Basil sits down on a plush bench, crossing one leg over the other. Unsure what to do now, Simon reluctantly sits next to him.

“Anyone catch your fancy, love?” the woman asks Basil, who still looks bored as ever.

“I’m not looking today, thank you,” he says. He turns to Simon. “You should take your pick, though.”

“Ah, well, some of our girls are a bit shy and only do one on one appointments, but I can point out a few who are happy to work with an audience,” the woman says, smiling as though she’d merely offered them a cup of tea.

Simon splutters. “I—It’s not—We’re not here to—It’s not like that—”

“Thank you,” Basil says calmly, holding up a hand, “but that won’t be necessary.”

The woman nods and leans in a little. “We have one who might interest you more,” she says, “but he’s with someone at the moment, so you’d have to wait.”

“Again, won’t be necessary,” he says.

She straightens up again, still smiling. “Well, feel free to settle in, take your time, get to know our girls, if you like,” she says. “I’ll be around if you need anything.”

Simon keeps his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him; he doesn’t want to know what he’d find if he looked around more.

“So,” Basil says, flicking dust off his knee, “you should pick someone. Since you were so desperate last night.”

“That was the Eupripria,” Simon hisses. “I’m not _desperate_.”

“Well it isn’t safe for us to go back outside yet, so you might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here.” The condescension in Basil’s voice is unmistakable.

“So you do want to watch, then?” Simon quips, looking over at him.

Basil smirks, like he thinks he’s still got the upper hand. “Do you want me to watch?” he says, and it sounds like a threat.

“Good afternoon, my lords,” a voice says above Simon’s head, and he looks up to see one of the bored young women standing in front of them. She doesn’t look quite as bored as the rest of them. “May I sit with you?”

Simon’s not sure how to decline the offer without being rude, especially when Basil motions for her to sit. But he shifts in his seat and rests his arms over his crossed legs, thereby ensuring that the only place she’ll be able to sit is Simon’s lap.

“You don’t mind, do you, my lord?” she asks Simon, resting a hand on his shoulder—his wounded shoulder. The salve seems to have worked, though, because he hardly feels a thing.

“Er, I— I guess not…?” he says, because what else is he supposed to say? _I haven’t lain with a woman in over a year, but no, please get your beautiful face and legs and hands away from me_. Absurd.

“He’s not a lord, he’s a servant,” Basil says when she settles sideways into Simon’s lap. She looks horrified for a moment, but Basil pulls out his coin purse. “I’ll cover it,” he says, and she relaxes against Simon a little, her chest pressing into his.

Simon shakes his head. “I’m fine, really,” he says. The disappointment on her face when she thought he couldn’t pay her just brought the reality of the situation crashing down around him. She doesn’t want _him_ , specifically. Just like he doesn’t want _her_.

She pouts at him and trails a hand over his front. “Are you sure?” she asks, her hand dipping dangerously low.

His mind flashes with memories of last night, of Basil’s hand on his shoulder—of other places he’d wanted Basil’s hand to go—and he takes her hand in his to stop her. “Thank you,” he says, “but really, I’m fine.”

She looks put out for a second before standing gracefully. “As you wish,” she says, and then adds with a bit more bite, “ _my lord_.”

Simon crosses his own legs and stares at the floor again as she walks away.

“Shall we leave, then?” Basil says, seeming far too amused by all of this.

“Yes, but I—” Simon replies, unable to make eye contact yet. “—I need a minute.”

* * *

They find a smaller, even grubbier inn on the other side of town, and settle in at a table in the corner to eat and discuss their plans. Simon is more interested in the eating.

“We’re going to need help sneaking back into Upper Watford,” Basil says as Simon tears into a drumstick with his teeth. “We can’t just show up at the gate and expect a warm welcome.”

“And you want to go back to… overthrow the Mage?” Simon asks when he finishes chewing.

“He’s lying to the Council and abusing his power,” Basil says.

“How do you know for sure?”

“He’s the one who decided anyone who went to train or live in Terrada was a traitor. He’s the reason you’d have been executed if they knew who you really were,” he says venomously.

“But that’s politics, isn’t it?” Simon says. “I don’t see how that makes him a liar—”

“He _sent_ people to Terrada.” Basil jabs his finger against the tabletop. “He sent _you_ to train there. Don’t you see?”

“I see that it makes him a hypocrite, yeah, but—”

“ _He knows who you are, Simon._ ” Basil’s words spark a thought that’s been nagging at the back of Simon’s mind since he was first brought to the palace in the spring.

Simon leans in, over his plate of food. “But why would he lie about that?” he asks quietly. “That’s what I can’t figure out. Why would he—”

“I’m meant to take my father’s seat on the High Council in a matter of months,” Basil says. He speaks slowly, as though he expects Simon to piece these drips of disjointed information together himself.

He doesn’t.

Basil sighs in frustration, raking a hand back through his hair as he hunches forward and lowers his voice further. “The Mage is using you to get to me,” he says. “He doesn’t want me taking that seat; he’ll never have full control with an actual Pitch on the Council. So he appointed you as my servant.”

Simon nods, like he understands where Basil is going with this, but then shakes his head. “I still don’t get it.”

Basil closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to summon every ounce of patience he has, but it’s wearing thin. “He sent you to get close to me,” he says, looking Simon in the eye very deliberately. “To verify certain… rumours about me.”

Simon’s eyes widen. “He wanted me to seduce you?” he asks, and Basil blinks at him and then glares.

“He wanted you to use your training as a Nox Knight to suss out if I’m really a vampire and _eliminate_ me,” Basil hisses.

“He—He…” Simon stammers. “He wanted me to _kill_ you?”

Basil gives him a pointed look to answer his question.

“But I… I wouldn’t do that.”

“Even if you believed you had irrefutable evidence?”

Simon sets his jaw, infuriated by the thought that the Mage might use him for something like this. “Yes,” he says.

Basil doesn’t seem to have expected that answer. “Why?”

“Because,” Simon says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His words hang between them for a moment, and Simon hopes Basil gets his meaning. Basil stares at him a moment and then lowers his head to one side and scoffs.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

“I do,” Simon replies firmly. “You could have killed me or drained me at any point the past few days, and you didn’t.”

Basil flashes a look over at him. “If the rumours were true, you mean.”

Simon gives a small, sympathetic smile. “Basil,” he says. “I _know_.”

“Know _what_ , Snow?” Basil snaps.

Simon scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I saw you. Last night. In the alley.” Basil looks away again. “Rats,” Simon adds. “In a city full of people. Full of vagrants with no one who would notice if they disappeared… And yet, _rats_.”

“Do you have a point, Snow?” Basil’s voice is sharp but thin, like he’s too worn out to pretend to be unaffected anymore.

“My point is that you’re not _evil_ ,” Simon says. “You’re just…”

Basil raises an eyebrow at him, and Simon smirks a little.

“Difficult, sometimes,” he says. His smile grows. “Probably because you’re so delicate. _Baz_.”

Basil purses his lips. “I could tear your arm clean off your shoulder, you know.”

“I know.” Simon can’t stop smiling. “I kind of like that, honestly.”

“Like what?”

“That you could hurt me. But you don’t.”

“Yet,” Basil says, ending the word with a sharp T.

Simon brings his drink up to his mouth. “We’ll see.”

* * *

“What are you doing, Snow?” Basil asks when they enter their room for the night and Simon immediately pins him against the closed door.

Simon presses his hands into the solid wood, caging Basil between his arms. “Trapping you,” he says. He feels a bit light-headed after drinking tonight—the antidote must still be having some effect, because it wasn’t much—but he can tell Basil must be feeling it too because his face almost looks flushed and his eyes aren’t as razor sharp as usual.

“I could easily shove you aside,” Basil says, though his voice is quiet enough that it doesn’t sound much like a threat.

“Then do it, _Baz_ ,” Simon says with a cocky grin, but Basil doesn’t move. “I’m not afraid of you, you know,” he adds, leaning closer.

“Well you should be,” Basil snaps. “I could destroy you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Simon’s pulse quickens. All he can think about is having Basil’s hands on him again. He leans in close enough to feel Basil’s breath on his face. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, he doesn’t think about why. Why he’s daring Basil to do _something_ to him, anything. Why he needs it so badly.

“Prove it,” he says, barely above a whisper, and for a second, Basil only stares at him. But soon Basil grabs Simon by the front of his new tunic and pulls him in until their chests are flush. There’s a brief moment where Simon thinks Basil might actually bite him, after all, but then Basil kisses him, and his heartbeat thunders in his chest.

Basil’s mouth is like fire and ice and stirs up a hunger deep within Simon that he didn’t even know was there. _Kissing Basil_. Why hadn’t he thought of this? When he pushes his hands into Basil’s hair, though, he realizes he must have thought about this at some point. He’s probably been thinking about it all day.

Basil shoves him all of a sudden, and he staggers back a couple of steps. Just when he thinks he’s misread the situation, somehow, Basil drops his bag to the floor and shoves Simon again until he falls back into the bed. This room is much smaller than the last one; the bed takes up most of the space.

He tries to sit up, but Basil is over him in an instant, bracketing his head with both arms against the bed.

“Is this what you want?” Basil asks menacingly, and Simon resists the urge to pull Basil’s hips down to meet his.

“Yes,” he breathes. And it’s true. He can’t remember ever wanting anything more than he wants _this_. Whatever _this_ is.

When Basil kisses him this time, it’s less of a shock, but he’s no less desperate for it. For more. He loses track of everything going on. Basil’s mouth, Basil’s hands, Basil’s body pressed against his. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He slides his own hands up Basil’s waist and starts opening his belt, but Basil’s stops him from removing it.

“But—” he protests, but Basil smothers the words with his mouth and starts opening Simon’s belt instead.

He loosens the laces at the neck of Simon’s tunic and then lifts it off over his head; Simon sits up to let him. He would let Basil do anything to him right now.

Basil kisses him again, his hand cool and firm against Simon’s bare chest, making the _wanting_ swell within him as the hand moves downward. Too much and not enough.

Simon nearly whimpers when Basil’s lips pull away from his, but when Basil starts to follow the path his hand had trailed down Simon’s chest and stomach, Simon’s breath catches. He pushes his hand into Basil’s hair again and squirms as Basil continues to undress him, kissing his stomach lower and lower until—

“Fuck,” he says, dragging his other hand through his own hair, trying to focus on not self-combusting instantaneously. He enjoyed this sort of thing the one time a woman’s ever done it for him, but it’s clear that Basil has had far more practice. But Simon doesn’t want to think about _how_ Basil must have gained this experience, so he shoves the thought aside.

He vaguely wonders if this is something he should be concerned about—a confirmed vampire with his mouth on… Well, he shoves that thought aside, too—he trusts Basil, he realizes. And he lets himself go.

Basil lingers and looks at him once Simon comes undone, and Simon wonders if it’s alright to kiss him again. “That… That was…” Simon says as he sits up, tugging on his hair. “Unexpected.” He smiles and reaches out to touch the side of Basil’s face, but Basil turns away and stands abruptly. “Wait, what are you—”

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” Basil asks, already fussing with the parts of his clothing that got mussed, and avoiding Simon’s eye.

“I—What I wanted…?”

Basil finally looks at him. “I told you I could destroy you in ways you can’t even imagine,” he says. “And you told me to prove it.”

“But… How did this destroy me?” Simon can’t understand what is happening. All he wants is for Basil to get back in the bed with him so he can hold him and kiss him and—

“I presume it hasn’t destroyed you,” Basil says, turning away again and smoothing back his hair. “Yet.”

Fear creeps up the back of Simon’s neck, even though he’s not sure what he’s meant to be afraid of.

“But I know things about you now,” Basil continues casually. “Things I could use against you, if it suited me.”

Simon laughs nervously. “If you didn’t turn me in for my apprenticeship in Terrada, or for my use of magic, then I doubt you’re going to turn me for this—”

Basil shakes his head and looks back at him. “I know what you like now, Snow,” he says in a low voice, practically growling. “I know what gets you going and I know when you’re about to reach your limit.”

Simon isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be afraid or aroused—it’s a strange combination of both.

“And maybe next time,” Basil adds, returning to his usual arrogant tone of voice, “I won’t let you get there.”

Simon stares at him a moment before the words register. “Wait, you only did this to taunt me?” he says, pulling his clothing back on loosely.

“Is that not what you wanted?” Basil says. “You spent the whole night goading me, begging me to show you what a monster I truly am, did you not? It was all just a laugh for you in the first place, but now that I’ve got you in check you want to pretend that any of this was sincere?”

Simon lowers his head guiltily. He’s not even sure why he started any of this. Maybe he was curious how far he could take it. How long Basil would keep calling his bluff. Until it wasn’t a bluff anymore. But it never was, was it?

“I’m sorry,” he says with his head still lowered. “I didn’t mean—I know you’re not a monster, Basil. I never meant to—It wasn’t supposed to—“

“Save it, Snow,” Basil cuts in. “You aren’t the first person who’s wanted me to _satisfy their curiosity_ for the night. You don’t have to apologize or claim it was anything more than that. We both got what we wanted.”

“But I—No!” Simon says, rising to his feet. “That’s not what I wanted. I didn’t even _know_ what I wanted, I just—” He grabs Basil’s arm before he can turn and leave.

Basil glares at him and he starts stammering, fumbling to find the words—any words—to fix this. He tightens his grip on Basil’s forearm when Basil looks away again, then cups the side of Basil’s face to swivel his head. He crashes his lips into Basil’s in an effort to convey all the things he’s thinking and feeling that he can’t put into words, but when Basil pulls his arm free of Simon’s grasp, he feels it all slipping away.

And then it’s not.

Basil cradles Simon’s neck in both hands, brushing Simon’s jaw with his thumbs and kissing him like he’s about to devour him whole. In a wave of relief, Simon circles his arm around Basil’s waist and hugs him so tight that he squeezes all the breath out of him for a second. A puff of air against Simon’s skin that makes him smile.

 _This_ is what he wants.

He breaks away from kissing Basil’s lips only so he may kiss the side of Basil’s face, his cheek, the scar forming below his eye. His desire to make quips with Basil and his desire to caress him tenderly do not need to be at odds with each other, he thinks. He wants Basil. All of him. Arrogance and anger and venom, but also his vulnerability and compassion.

“Will you spend the night with me?” he whispers, and Basil draws his head back slightly to look at him.

“We’ve shared a bed for several nights, Snow—“

“I mean like this,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down Basil’s back. “I want to hold you as we fall asleep.” He kisses Basil’s cheek again. “I want to kiss you when we wake up. I want to…” His voice trails off as he runs the back of his other hand over Basil’s stomach and kisses him right on his jawline. “Baz…”

Basil turns his head suddenly and catches Simon’s lips with his, and Simon loses track of everything again.

* * *

Simon remembers everything in the morning. The way Basil kissed and kissed him until his mouth was sore. The way Basil’s body was pressed against his once they returned to the bed. The way Basil barely had to touch Simon to make him fall apart again.

And the way Basil wouldn’t let Simon touch him. Not in the same way. Simon didn’t understand—it was physically clear that Basil was just as _desirous_ as Simon—but he respected Basil’s wishes nonetheless.

Simon fell asleep with Basil wrapped in his arms, but it isn’t how he wakes up.

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised to find himself alone in the morning, like he has every day for the past year of his life, but part of him had hoped things would be different now.

He gets out of bed and dresses himself for the day before Basil returns from wherever it is he goes in the mornings. It only now occurs to Simon that Basil may have been out looking for rats, since he didn’t have a chance last night.

Simon gives him a small smile but Basil doesn’t respond.

“We need to head out,” he says, devoid of any emotion. “We’ll get another horse and start riding south—”

“Wait,” Simon says, putting a hand on Basil’s arm. “Couldn’t we—I mean, we only just—” He reaches up to touch Basil’s face, but he turns away quickly.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Basil says, brushing nothing off his sleeve. “It was a foolish mistake and it won’t be happening again. Now, come on. We have to get riding if we want to make it to—”

“A mistake?” Simon grabs his arm again, and Basil glares at him. “You slept in my arms.”

“ _Fitfully_.”

“Baz—”

“Technically, you still work for me,” Basil adds, leaning in and lowering his voice menacingly, “which makes my behaviour wildly inappropriate and yours downright insubordinate.”

“Insubordinate? I think we’re way past that, mate!”

“Do not,” Basil says, but he doesn’t finish the threat. He straightens his back and adjusts his bag. “How’s your shoulder?”

He says it just as coldly and at first Simon doesn’t realize the complete change in topic. “Er…” He rotates his shoulder a few times and stretches out his arm. “Fine, I s’pose.”

“Good,” Basil says as he opens the door. “We’ll get you a sword, then.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slaying a beast, falling off a roof, and something more delicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there's another (non-graphic) sex scene in this chapter, as well as another monster fight. The violence is not graphic either.

Simon slashes the sword through the air a few times, taking care not to tear through the awning of the merchant’s stall. Then he sways it back and forth, watching the blade carefully.

“The balance is terrible,” he says, flipping it around again, narrowly avoiding making a dent in the table in front of him.

“It’s a cast-off, Snow, what do you expect?” Basil says, arms folded across his chest. “You don’t need to slay a dragon with it, we just need to get to Watford in one piece.”

“Dragons are extinct,” Simon replies, rotating the sword in his hand.

“All the more reason.”

He sighs and lowers his arm. “Fine. I suppose it’ll have to do for now,” he says. “But if we run into more delhiid, we’re fucked.”

* * *

_We’re fucked_ , Simon thinks as they speed down the heavily wooded path on horseback, trying to outrun the crackling and hissing amongst the trees. It wasn’t Simon’s idea to come through this way, but Basil was adamant that they stay off the main roads now more than ever.

“I’ll get us through,” he had said when Simon pointed out that maybe this wasn’t a great idea.

The horse was spooked almost immediately, and Simon would have been thrown off then if he hadn’t been holding onto Basil for dear life. Basil managed to calm the horse quickly, though.

They make it through the trees to a stream where they rest a few minutes before following it towards the setting sun. Simon doesn’t think Basil knows where it leads, but if they keep heading southwest they should find their way soon. (Although Simon now wishes he had done his apprenticeship and training here in Hellarium so he would know the countryside better. And, incidentally, he never would have wound up in this situation to begin with.)

The sky glows yellow and orange as night approaches, and they look for a place to settle in for the night. A path of trodden earth leads away from the stream, suggesting someone uses it regularly to fetch water, and they follow it to a large farmhouse with sprawling fields of crops. They come to a stop just beyond the edge and stare at it.

“This isn’t one your father owns, is it?” Simon asks, looking over Basil’s shoulder. Basil flinches when Simon accidentally speaks directly into his ear.

“I don’t know,” Basil says gruffly, reaching up with one hand to adjust the collar of his shirt around his neck. “I haven’t been to many of them.”

“So they won’t recognize you, then.”

Basil twists his head slightly and side-eyes him. “You’re suggesting we ask them to put us up for the night, even if they work for my father?”

“They don’t have to know who your father is,” Simon says. “We’re anonymous travellers seeking shelter for the night. Maybe we could pay them.”

“I think we need to save our coin as we get closer to Watford, Snow.”

“We could barter, then.”

“With what?” Basil asks. “We have nothing to offer.”

Simon shrugs. “I guess that depends what they need.”

* * *

This was a mistake. Simon knows it as soon as he approaches the crest of the hill.

The farmer had been wary of him and Basil, appearing at his doorstep without warning, dressed in ill-fitting clothing and carrying a sword, like a pair of hopeless bandits who’d lost their way. But Simon explained their situation—a wandering Nox Knight and a healer, who travel the country to bring aid to all the far corners, and need a place to rest for the night.

This piqued the farmer’s interest. “A Nox and a healer?” He eyed Simon skeptically, regarding his lack of any sort of armour appropriate for Nox work, but seemed to take them at their word. Or perhaps he was merely desperate.

He explained that a Boccalupino had been terrorizing his livestock for weeks now, that he’d lost several goats and a couple heads of cattle. It attacked again last night, he said, while he and his wife were tending to the flock, and she was lacerated by its razor-sharp tail.

Basil gave Simon a look that said they should leave immediately, but Simon clapped him on the back and told the farmer that Basil was the best healer in all of Hellarium.

Now, stepping over the broken branches and animal carcasses forming some sort of nest on the hill, Simon realizes they should have just turned around and left. One of the animals, a deer, looks like a fresh kill, and the claw marks on it tell Simon that this is not the sort of Boccalupino he’s used to.

He’s dealt with Boccalupino before, in Terrada, but the lands there are well-patrolled and most of the creatures and monsters never get this big. With a mediocre sword and a mediocre arm—and nothing to protect himself from its tail—he’s not sure he’ll stand a chance. But he knows that if he leaves, it will keep devastating the farm and surrounding area and he has a duty as a Nox to vanquish it. It’s not about bartering for a room for the night, but protecting the realm he swore to protect. (Or would have sworn to protect, if he hadn’t been made into a servant instead.)

He has no way of knowing how long before the beast returns, so he has to form a plan quickly. He crouches down behind a pile of branches, some of which are nearly the size of a tree trunk, and scans the area. It’s not a great place to hide, but it’s the best he’s got right now. He’ll need the element of surprise or he won’t stand a chance.

The sky turns pink and purple above him and he starts to wonder if he’ll be sitting here all night when he hears it. Huge flapping wings and the thud of a landing, claws scraping over sticks and mud. He waits until it seems to settle and then peers over the branches. The Boccalupino is a chimera-like monster, a horrifying combination of the creatures of legend that roamed the land long ago. Its many heads, protruding at all angles from its body, are each meant to resemble a different beast from the picture books Simon read from as a child, but generations of mutations have left them nearly unrecognizable.

 _It looks like a nightmare_ , Simon had thought the first time he encountered one.

It’s too late for him to run now, in any case, so he reaches out over the branches and shoots the Boccalupino with a fire spell. The bird-like head squawks and it rises to its feet as the flames catch on the debris surrounding it. It starts to flap its wings to escape, but Simon leaps up across the branches and grabs one of its legs before it can take off. Flames lick at his trousers, threatening to catch, but the Boccalupino lifts him out of reach. He struggles to hold on as it tries to shake him loose, and he has to dodge when its tail whips around to strike him.

He manages to climb onto its back, jamming his knee into one of its snouts, and pulls out his sword. All of its heads are straining to reach him, snarling and growling and screeching at him, its wings flapping furiously as it staggers through the air. He slashes at a couple of the heads trying to bite him, removing one of them completely, and then goes in for the final blow.

He stabs the Boccalupino right through the back of its ribcage and twists his sword, and it shrieks with its dying breath. They lose altitude quickly; Simon yanks the sword free before jumping to the ground so he won’t land in the fire along with the beast. He waits until the screeching and the twitching stop, and then takes a seat on a log to catch his breath.

The sun is nearly gone when he gets to his feet again. He looks at the creature lying dead before him and considers bringing the farmer one of its heads, but figures that probably won’t be necessary. Only kings and eccentrics seem to want the heads of the beasts he slays for them.

He makes his way back to the farmhouse and knocks on the door. The farmer looks surprised to see him. As if he wasn’t expecting Simon to make it back.

“It’s done?” the farmer asks.

“Well, I’m not covered in my own blood,” Simon replies.

“Right, yes, well.” The farmer steps aside hesitantly. “Come inside, you can clean up here.”

Basil is sitting by the fireplace and looks up when Simon walks in. His eyes go wide when he takes in the state of him, but Simon shakes his head to say, _“I’m fine.”_

“Maricel!” the farmer calls out, and a young woman comes in from the next room.

She catches Simon’s eye and then looks away shyly, turning to the farmer. “Yes, father?” she says.

“Please show, er… our Nox friend here,” he says, “where to clean up.”

“Yes, father,” she says with a nod. She looks back at Simon with her head lowered slightly and gives him a small smile.

He smile-grimaces back, feeling disgusting, covered in sweat and blood and muck, and follows her through the house. She leads him out a door at the back and around the side, taking a lantern with her. Between the house and the small stable, below a slanting roof, are some stacked barrels and a large basin of water with a pump, and she hangs the lantern on a hook above their heads.

He thanks her and she nods before heading back into the house. He splashes water on his face and then leans his back against the wall. This day—no, this week—has been exhausting, and all he wants is crawl into bed with Basil at his side and sleep until all of this is over. But he knows that’s impossible, so with an achy groan, he pushes himself upright and pumps some more water.

“Oh!” says a voice behind him as soon as he takes off his filthy tunic. He turns to see the young woman—Maricel—standing there with a bundle of cloth in her hand. “I, um, thought you might want something clean to wear,” she says quietly, holding out the bundle.

Simon accepts it from her hesitantly. “Thanks,” he says, but she doesn’t leave even after he’s received it.

“Are you really a Nox?” she asks, staring in awe at the half-healed gash in his shoulder.

“I am,” he says with a tight nod. Technically, he’s not currently employed as such, but he decides to leave out that detail.

“That’s just…” Her voice trails off dreamily. “You really fight monsters and demons and all of that?”

“More or less.”

“Wow.”

He chuckles nervously. “It’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

“I bet you have some amazing stories,” she says.

“I mean, maybe…” he says, growing increasingly aware of his bare chest. He folds his arms across it. “Next time we’re out this way, I’ll be sure to share some.”

Her smile broadens. “That would be lovely,” she says, though she seems to regret being so forward, because she quickly lowers her head and retreats backwards. “Right, I’ll leave you to…” she says, then she nods again and disappears around the back of the house.

Simon finishes cleaning up and puts on the garment Maricel brought for him. It’s a tunic very similar to the sort he would have worn back home, and the familiarity of the style makes something ache in his chest. He misses the life he had before, the one where he was free, where he wasn’t pretending to be a servant and running from the law. But there are things about it he doesn’t miss…

“How’s the shoulder?”

Simon nearly gets his arm stuck, trying to get the tunic on, when a voice behind him startles him. He looks back and finds Basil leaning sideways against the wall. “It’s fine,” he says, though now that the rush of the fight has died down, he notices it feels a bit sore.

Basil stares at him but doesn’t say anything; he can tell Simon is lying.

“So,” Simon adds, scratching the back of his neck. “How’s the man’s wife?”

“There wasn’t much I could do,” Basil says, “seeing as I’m not an actual healer and I lack a full stock of supplies.”

Simon winces. He hadn’t really thought of that.

“I gave them the rest of the Salve of Ravi and Eupripria and told them to use it if the wound doesn’t seem to be healing within a few days.”

“Right.” Simon nods and leans against the side of the house with his good shoulder, facing Basil. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”

Basil shrugs, lowering his gaze, and Simon inches closer to him.

“Do you—I mean, are you wanting—” Simon begins, then takes a breath to sort out his thoughts. “Are you hoping things will go back to the way they were?” he asks. “When we get back to Mummers, I mean. Do you miss your life there?”

Basil looks at him with suspicion. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing, I just—I wondered if—“ Simon takes another breath. “Were you happy, you know, with your life?”

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“You don’t think it matters whether or not you were happy?”

“My role is not to be _happy_ , Snow,” Basil says. “I have a responsibility to my family and to my country, and my happiness is irrelevant.”

Simon frowns at him sadly. “But don’t you get… well, _lonely_ , sometimes?” The way Basil sets his jaw answers the question for him.

“It’s better to be lonely than—“ Basil cuts himself off and looks away.

“Than what?” Simon asks softly, slowly closing the distance between them.

“Do you have any idea what people would say,” Basil says, his eyes landing on Simon’s mouth, “if I had the things I wanted?”

“Does it matter what people say?” Simon reaches forward with his hand and brushes his knuckles over Basil’s stomach. “People say all kinds of things anyway. It doesn’t have to dictate what you do with your life.”

Basil’s eyelids drift shut as Simon hooks his fingers round Basil’s waist belt. “It’s not that simple,” he says in a low, gravelly voice when he opens his eyes again.

Simon leans in and angles his chin up towards him. “Can’t you make it that simple?”

“Simon…” Basil leans in as well, shaking his head. “I can’t…”

“You’re Basil fucking Pitch,” Simon tells him, a small smile playing across his lips. Basil’s mouth twitches, too. “You can do anything you want.”

“Not without disappointing a lot of people.”

“Fuck ‘em!”

Basil breathes out a soft laugh. “I’d rather not.”

Simon’s smile widens and he rubs Basil’s stomach with more intention. He leans in close enough that he can feels Basil’s breath on his face, and Basil leans in as well, eyelids fluttering shut again. “Baz…”

A horse in the stable next to them whinnies and stomps its hooves, causing the lantern above them to shake loose. It narrowly misses their heads and lands on the ground next to them. They spring apart, startled, and Simon stamps out the flame before it can catch on the dry grass.

“We should get some rest,” Basil says, already standing by the door by the time Simon looks up. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

Simon watches him head back inside while the embers die at his feet.

* * *

For the first time in many nights, Simon and Basil are not sharing a bed—or at least a room.

It shouldn’t feel so strange; Simon went most of his life not sharing a bed with Basil—or anyone, for that matter. But he’s grown accustomed to the feeling of someone there with him. Curling up against Basil’s solid back and breathing him in until Simon’s nerves were calmed and he could drift off to sleep. He’s not sure how he’s going to sleep now.

He considers waiting until everyone is asleep and sneaking downstairs to the “Queen’s Room”—many larger homes like this have one room designated for the Queen, in case she ever needed to sleep there, which she obviously never would have—where Basil is sleeping tonight. It was the only room on the main level with a spare bed, and Simon insisted that Basil take it. (Maricel offered to give up her bed to Simon for the night, but he wouldn’t dream of putting someone out like that.)

The attic is a bit musty, but there’s an old bed up here from the previous residents of the house—presumably one of them had to sleep up here to keep the Queen’s Room empty. Simon said he didn’t mind taking this room, though it’s so far from the fire in the middle of the house that he’s already feeling the chill in the air.

He lies on his back, blinking at the ceiling above him. The lantern on the floor next to the bed makes shadows dance across the wall and ceiling, but he prefers that to being plunged in complete darkness. He watches the shadows for a while and then closes his eyes, but his brain won’t rest. He rolls onto his side. Then the other. But his shoulder is in too much pain and he ends up on his back again.

He replays his conversation with Basil over and over in his mind—if it can be called a conversation. He’s not even sure what they talked about. He certainly wasn’t thinking about words at the time.

As he is contemplating rolling over yet again, the hatch at the other side of the room slowly creaks open, and he sits up. For a fleeting moment, he thinks it might be Basil coming to find him, unable to spend the night apart either. But the figure that climbs through is too short and round.

“Oh, excuse me,” Maricel says, stopping part way up the ladder. “Did I wake you?”

“I—No?” Simon replies, although now he’s not sure that this isn’t just a strange dream.

“Oh, good,” she says, sounding relieved, and she climbs the rest of the way through the hatch.

“Do you…” Simon begins uncertainly. “Need something?”

She hugs her arms around herself and dips her head shyly. “I was wondering…” she says, taking a careful step towards the bed.

“Yes?”

She covers her mouth and laughs nervously. “Is it true that the Nox are… Um… Well…” She giggles again, like she’s too embarrassed by the question to get it out, but Simon can already tell where this is going.

“Maricel,” he says, sitting up taller and bringing his knees up to his chest, “you don’t want this. Trust me.”

“I do, though,” she says quickly. “All the young men over in Rotterdaal are spineless and weak. I don’t want to lie with any of them, and I don’t want to wait until I’m married off.”

Simon grunts in frustration and drags a hand through his hair, far too tired to deal with this right now. “You don’t even know me,” he says

“But I know that you look up to the task, physically speaking,” she says. “And I can tell that you’re honourable. Also, the thought of you touching me doesn’t _entirely_ make me want to fling myself into the lake; surely that’s something.”

He looks at her sympathetically. “You have plenty of time to find someone you actually _like_ ,” he says.

She hugs her arms in again and nods her head solemnly. “I suppose… But—” She cuts herself off when they hear a noise coming from downstairs. Someone moves the ladder to the attic and the hatch trembles. Her father’s angered voice calls up for her and she gasps.

“Shit!” Simon hisses, scrambling to his feet as the hatch starts to open.

“Father!” Maricel says sweetly, rushing over to keep him from coming up.

But Simon knows it’s too late. He’s the only other person up here, and absolutely _no one_ wants to find their daughter closed up in a room alone with a Nox—even if the tales of their prowess, in general, have been grossly overinflated.

He leaps onto the bed and pushes open the shutters of the window above it, taking a quick look over the side to see where he might land, and then vaults himself through it. He lands on the roof connecting the side of the house and the stable and runs down the slope of it. He loses his footing and skids the last few feet, falling off the end of the roof into some hay. It sticks to him everywhere, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that.

He rushes up to the window at the side of the house that he thinks leads to the room where Basil is sleeping. “Basil!” he whisper-yells into the darkness, though Basil’s face appears in front of him suddenly. The racket above must have already woken him up.

“We have to _go_!” Simon adds. Basil looks absolutely perplexed, but doesn’t question him yet.

Basil grabs his bag and cloak and jumps through the window more gracefully than Simon ever could have, and they immediately run to the other side of the stable to get their horse. The back door of the house swings open loudly, and Simon thinks there’s no way they will mount their horse in time, but Basil lifts him up into the saddle and swings himself up behind, sending the horse into trot before he’s even fully seated.

His arms come around either side of Simon in order to grip the reins as the horse picks up speed, and he looks over Simon’s shoulder to steer. The light reflecting off the moon is strong tonight, but they ride away from the road and into the trees, where it quickly becomes more tricky to navigate. Which means it will be tricky for anyone to come looking for them.

* * *

They ride as far as the horse will take them and set up camp for the night.

“What happened?” Basil finally asks, once Simon gets a small fire going in front of them.

Simon leans back against the base of a tree and tips his head back. “Misunderstanding,” he says with a sigh, then looks at Basil. “The farmer’s daughter decided to pay me a visit, and her father doesn’t seem overly pleased about that. Hence the running for my life.”

Basil’s jaw tenses. “ _Pay you a visit?_ ”

“She wanted me to… Er, she wanted to know if…” Simon lowers his head and scratches the back of his neck. “If it were true, you know… What they say about the Nox.”

“I see,” Basil replies tersely. “I presume you gave her an answer, then.”

“Yeah.” Simon lets out a sarcastic laugh. “I told her to find someone else.”

“Really?” Basil asks, and Simon nods. “Hm.”

“ _Hm_? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Basil says, focusing on the flames instead of looking at Simon.

“You’re surprised that I didn’t—”

“I didn’t think you were all that selective.”

Simon frowns at him. “Not that selective? You think I just fuck anyone who asks?”

“Don’t you?” Basil says sharply, though he can’t hide the pain in his eyes when looks over at Simon.

“You think—”Simon stops to shake his head. “I don’t do… everything we did… with just anyone, you know.”

Basil glowers at the fire again.

“Basil,” Simon says, touching him on the arm. “Last night, I… I wasn’t desperate, or bored. You weren’t just _anyone_. You aren’t just anyone. You never could be.”

“Well, maybe _I_ was bored,” Basil says bitterly. “Maybe _you_ were just anyone. Did you think of that?”

“No,” Simon says. He squeezes Basil’s arm. “Because I know that’s not true. That’s not who you are.”

“You don’t know anything about who I am, or what I am,” Basil says, turning his head away.

Simon lifts his other hand to Basil’s chin and gently guides him back. “I know what you are, Baz.”

“And what’s that?” Basil says, his tough exterior cracking as Simon takes him by the back of his neck and pulls him closer until their noses almost brush.

“A good man.”

Simon kisses him softly—cautiously, even—giving him space to back away if he really doesn’t want this. But he doesn’t back away.

It’s slow at first, feeling each other, tasting each other, like it’s the first time. This is how it should have been, Simon thinks. Not a series of escalating bluffs, trying to obscure his true desires, but this. Raw, vulnerable. Delicate.

His lips break into a smile against Basil’s at the thought, but he keeps kissing him, drawing him deeper and deeper until they grow frantic for each other. It’s no longer enough; Simon needs to taste more of him, all of him. He tips Basil’s head back and kisses him along his, below his ear, down his neck—

Basil pulls back suddenly and clamps his hand over the side of his neck where Simon had kissed him.

Simon stares at him, perplexed. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, panting for breath.

“No, it’s—It’s nothing,” Basil says, but Simon catches his chin again before he can look away.

“If I did something wrong, tell me, I—”

“You did nothing wrong,” he says, his voice strained with impatience. “It’s just a—” He sighs and rolls his head to stretch out his neck, then opens the lacing of his high-collared tunic. He pulls the collar to one side, exposing the base of his neck.

Simon doesn’t know what Basil is showing him at first, but when he leans in he sees it. A bite mark. A scar from two puncture wounds, that’s long since healed but has never gone away. He stares at it and reaches out his hand to feel it, but stops himself. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“No,” Basil says solemnly.

“Can I…?” Simon says, hovering his hand over it. Basil closes his eyes and nods, and Simon lets his fingertips brush the scar lightly, feeling the slight raised texture of the skin. It feels like any other scar, like the one that runs down his own neck and chest.

He leans his head in slowly, half expecting Basil to stop him, and places a kiss over one of the marks, then the other. He holds the back of Basil’s neck as he presses more kisses to his skin, around the scar and down his shoulder, tugging Basil’s tunic open wider with his other hand.

Basil curls a fist in Simon’s hair and Simon growls against him, kissing Basil passionately on the lips, pulling at the bottom of Basil’s tunic as he does. He removes Basil’s waist belt and lifts off his tunic completely and then runs his hand over Basil’s exposed chest, down his stomach, stopping at the laces of his trousers.

“Can I…?” he asks again, hooking a finger in the top laces.

“Please,” Basil says, catching Simon’s mouth with his again.

Simon’s pushing Basil to the ground in an instant, leaning over him as he tries to untie everything one-handed and highly distracted. He barely gets the trousers open before shoving his hand down the front of them. He’s never given this sort of thing much thought before—at least not before he met Basil. It was something he may have considered once or twice, wondered about after training exercises, or long quests out in the wilderness with the other apprentices…

But he never could have imagined how much he’d enjoy… this. Making someone look the way Basil does right now.

“I want—” he says, pausing to catch his breath. “—To give you—” He struggles with how to say it, so he kisses Basil again on the mouth, and on the neck, and past his collarbone.

“Simon,”Basil says, his hand still tangled up in Simon’s hair.

Simon lifts his head slightly. “Just, tell me if I do something wrong, yeah?” he says with a small laugh, and even Basil cracks a bit of a smile.

He tries to remember what Basil did last night, but it was all such a rush of excitement that he’s not entirely sure. Basil seems to enjoy this, though. Simon keeps looking up at him to make sure he’s alright; he decides he wants to make Basil feel this good every day for the rest of his life.

Basil isn’t particularly loud or vocal about it—not like Simon, as it turns out—but the hand not in Simon’s hair flies up to cover his mouth, like he’s trying to muffle himself. Simon almost stops, thinking he’s done something wrong, but Basil’s grip on the back of his head urges him to continue. Basil’s head tips back and he clamps his hand down over his mouth, even though he doesn’t actually make a sound. At least he doesn’t seem to have any complaints.

Except he’s still covering his mouth, even when Simon crawls up to lay on the ground next to him. Basil turns his head away.

“Are you alright?” Simon asks, but Basil turns his head further. Simon’s about to ask again when Basil finally looks back at him, letting his hand fall away from his mouth.

“I’m fine,” Basil says, and Simon’s expression must crumple as heavily as his chest, because Basil quickly adds, “No, I’m excellent, I’m—You’re—” He reaches out to brush Simon’s cheek and shakes his head. “I can’t control it,” he says.

Simon places his hand over Basil’s and holds it against his face. “Control what?”

“My… reaction.”

“Reaction?” Simon glances down briefly. “I didn’t think you needed to control that if we’re…”

Basil closes his eyes, the way he would sometimes when he thought Simon was being an idiot, and Simon almost expects Basil to call him that now. Only now he thinks he’d just find it endearing.

“Most of the time, when I’m… with someone,” Basil says slowly, “I’m able to keep most of my… _peculiarities_ hidden away.” Simon nods, trying to follow along, though he’s not sure he’s succeeding. “But when I get close to… the end,” Basil continues, “I can’t always hold them back any longer. I have to let go in order to… Well.”

Basil’s words gradually click into place in Simon’s head. “Your fangs!” he says, eyes wide. “They come out when you—Oh. Alright. Yeah.” He runs a finger over Basil’s bottom lip. “But why did you cover them up? I already know about your… _peculiarities_.”

“It wouldn’t have horrified you, in that moment, to be reminded of what kind of beast I really am?” Basil says.

“You’re not a beast, Baz,” Simon says softly. “You’re just a man.” He moves in closer until their lips are nearly touching again. “A good man.”

* * *

Simon is reluctant to move in the morning. His shoulder hurts from sleeping against the hard ground all night, but more than that, Basil is still lying next to him, curled up in Simon’s embrace. He presses his face into Basil’s back and smiles.

Basil had left for a while last night, when they both were exhausted but satisfied, saying he needed to stretch his legs; Simon drifted to sleep before Basil returned. But he knew Basil would return.

“I know you’re awake,” he says, his voice rough with sleep, as he feels Basil’s breath moving in and out. He smooths his hand over Basil’s stomach, taking in his full presence.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Basil says primly, but he relaxes back against Simon’s chest when Simon squeezes him closer.

“I like that you’re here,” Simon says, whispering against Basil’s neck before kissing it.

He considers spending the rest of the day here with him, kissing and touching and bringing each other to ecstasy like they did last night. But Basil seems to have other plans.

Basil sits up, brushing dirt from his sleeves, stretching his neck and his back. “We need to discuss our plan,” he says, and Simon grudgingly sits up beside him.

“Our plan is to return to Watford, isn’t it?” Simon says.

“And once we get there?” Basil says. “We need a way into the palace without being detected so that I can find the records—your apprenticeship, your registration, everything.”

“Couldn’t we return as ourselves?” Simon says, and Basil frowns at him skeptically. “You take me in, say you’ve managed to arrest me and are bringing me back for a trial—”

“Too risky,” Basil says quickly. “We can’t risk a trial until I’ve found the evidence. We need someone to help us get in, and keep you hidden until everything is in place.”

“Know of anyone?”

“Perhaps. But we’ll need to stop in Lower Watford first,” he says, he rises to his feet, brushing off more dirt. “I need to pay someone a visit.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old acquaintances, new precipices, and a clever ruse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another (non-graphic) scene of a sexual nature in this chapter.

It took most of the day for them to reach the outskirts of Lower Watford, though they rode as fast as they could. Mostly to avoid any more unfortunate encounters with volari or delhiid, since Simon forgot his sword at the farmhouse in his haste to leave.

It’s easy enough to look inconspicuous in this part of town, despite the grime and tatters on their clothing. If anything, it helps them blend in. Simon doesn’t know the area very well—he only visited the capital briefly before his apprenticeship, and most of that time was spent in the designated training quarters in Upper Watford. He’s only seen Lower Watford in passing. It’s busier than he remembers, and the crowds of people overwhelm him a little at first, but he soon finds the bustle to be a comfort. They will be much harder to identify in a crowd.

Basil seems to know his way around well enough, though. He leads Simon purposefully through the throngs of people, merchants and patrons and beggars, until they reach a building that looks like a run-down inn. The sign at the front is falling down, but he sees people entering and leaving, which suggests it must still be operational. But Basil doesn’t lead him through the front door.

Instead, they head around the side of the next building, squeezing through a narrow alley filled with refuse, until they reach a door that must lead to the back of the inn. There’s a man standing next to it, with a dagger strapped to his side, who asks them to state their business here.

“We’re here to play a few rounds,” Basil says, handing the man a coin.

The man inspects the coin briefly and then nods them through. The door immediately opens into a descending staircase, and Simon follows Basil down into the darkness. There’s light at the bottom, and when they reach it, Simon sees the large tavern hall, the kind he would have expected to see if they had come through the front door upstairs. Only this hall is busier than any he’s ever seen.

There are several people crowded around each table, some seated and some merely standing behind them, looking over their shoulders. They appear to be playing games of some sort, and Simon understands where they are.

“Gambling?” he asks Basil in a harsh whisper. He has no idea why Basil could have brought him here.

“If you need help sneaking into Upper Watford, this is where you find it,” Basil replies. He looks around the room, like he’s trying to find someone. And he must find them, because soon he’s marching over to the far corner, Simon trailing behind.

A handful of men sit at the table where Basil stops, though only a couple of them seem to recognize him. They look up at him, eyebrows raised, and Simon realizes they look vaguely familiar. He’s seen them around Mummers before—he’s even seen Basil talking to one of them on occasion—but he doesn’t know them personally.

“Gentlemen,” Basil says to them with an air of entitlement that Simon hasn’t seen from him as much since they left Mummers.

“Basil!” the closer man says, his face breaking out into a grin. He stands up and slaps Basil on the shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”

“And you seem positively bereft over it,” Basil quips.

“Well, I mean…” the man says, waving a hand through the air like he’s a little tipsy. “Word was you were either eaten by delhiid, or that your manservant was an evil sorcerer who abducted you for evil sorcery reasons. But I know you better than that, Basil.” He grins again and then slaps Simon on the back this time. Simon coughs.

“Dev,” Basil says to the man, tightening his jaw. “I’m here to ask you for a favour.”

Dev’s grin falls away. “Oh, shit, this is serious.”

“And rather urgent, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, okay. What is it?”

Basil glances around without moving his head. “We can discuss it privately,” he says. He casts a glance at the other man and glowers. “The two of us.”

Dev nods and steps away from his seat. He turns to the man next to him briefly and pats his shoulder as well. “You can play my hand, but if it wins, we split it seventy/thirty.”

“You’ll settle for thirty?” the man asks, smiling up at him insincerely.

“Fuck you.”

Simon takes a step to follow Basil and Dev as they start to walk away, but Basil stops him. “You can wait here,” he says.

Simon nods and takes a step back, facing the table of people looking at him like he’s a fish out of water.

“Are we playing this hand or not?” one of them says, and Dev’s friend picks up the cards in front of him.

“On with it, then,” he says with a wave of his hand.

Simon watches their game unfold on the table before him, but he can’t follow what is happening. It’s rather fast-paced, and judging by one man’s groan of defeat, he’s lost already. Someone rounds up all the cards and starts to shuffle them as the defeated man pushes a pile of coins towards another man. Dev’s friend pushes an even bigger pile towards him and frowns.

“Another hand?” the man with the cards says, but Dev’s friend waves to dismiss him.

“I’m done with this,” he says. He picks up a drink off the table and takes a large gulp. “Leave me. All of you.”

The other men shuffle to their feet, grumbling about him being a sore loser, and leave, taking their drinks and their coins with them. Simon makes to leave, too, but the man points at him.

“You,” he says. “You can stay.” He points at the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Simon does as he’s instructed. It seems this man might know who he is—certainly who Basil is—and he doesn’t want to risk angering him.

“What is your name?” he asks, and Simon draws a blank. Which name does he give? Either one could get him in a lot of trouble. “Well?” the man prods. “It isn’t a trick question.”

“Simon,” Simon says, with as much confidence as he can muster. “Simon Salisbury.”

The man frowns at him but looks amused. It’s a look he’s seen from Basil before, many times. “Salisbury… I do not believe I know that name.”

“Why should you?”

“I know all the family names around here,” he says with a dark smile.

“Well, I’m not from around here.”

“Evidently not.” His smile grows wider, and somehow more sinister. “Nice to meet you, _Simon Salisbury_ ,” he says, taking another swig of his drink and setting it down again. “Niall Watson.”

“Watson?” Simon says incredulously. “As in the Watson family—”

“Whose ancestors founded this city, yes,” Niall says. “At least they teach you _some_ history back wherever you came from.”

Simon doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t know what a member of such a prominent and wealthy family would be doing at a filthy gambling tavern in Lower Watford.

“You don’t look much like an evil sorcerer,” Niall says, giving Simon a once-over.

“I’m not,” Simon says, crossing his arms in front of him on the table.

“You don’t look much like a servant, either,” Niall adds. “But I’m guessing that’s not why Basil keeps you around.”

Simon bristles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Niall smirks. “I think you do.”

“If this is about idle gossip and speculations—”

“Oh it’s not speculation,” Niall says. “I’m well aware of Basil’s… _inclinations_.” He smirks again. “First hand, you might say.”

Simon stands abruptly and lurches forward, like he’s ready to punch Niall in the face, but someone comes up beside him and he startles.

“Something wrong here?” Basil asks, and Simon backs off.

Niall stands, brushing nothing off his jacket, the way Basil does when he’s pretending to be bored. Simon hadn’t really paid much notice to the detailed embroidery of Niall’s jacket, the fitted sleeves, the things that make it painfully obvious he doesn’t belong in a place like this. And yet no one else bats an eye.

“Control your man, Basilton,” he says, taking a step towards them. “Otherwise he’ll control you.” Niall turns to Dev, who returned with Basil, and smiles again. “I lost all your coin,” he says. “But the good news is that now you don’t have to give me seventy percent.”

“You fucking bastard,” Dev says, but there’s no menace to it.

“Come on,” Niall adds. “I’ll buy you a drink.” He turns to walk away and Dev follows him.

“Buy me two and I’ll consider letting you off the hook.”

Simon watches them leave, snaking around and between the tables like they do it all the time. “Who were they?” he asks Basil.

“Dev is my cousin,” Basil says, leading Simon towards the exit.

“And Niall is… a friend?”

Basil’s posture stiffens but he keeps walking. “An _acquaintance_. And not important to our plan.”

“And what is our plan?”

Basil stops at the foot of the staircase and looks at Simon. “Penelope.”

* * *

After acquiring some food and going over the plan for getting into Upper Watford, Simon and Basil head upstairs to get some rest. Separately.

Basil pointed out that they’d draw more attention, getting a room together, that it would bring on too much scrutiny. In the smaller towns and villages, generally they don’t ask too many questions; they are just happy for the coin. But here in Watford, when gossip and scandal are nearly as great a currency as coin—maybe even greater—they have to be much more careful. The last thing the two of them need is anyone taking more than a fleeting glance at them. As soon as they draw someone’s eye, they could be exposed.

Simon knows Basil has a point, but he still hates it. And he hates it even more as he lies in his bed, alone, thinking about his conversation with Niall tonight. The things he insinuated…

But Basil isn’t like that, is he? He may not have liked Simon much at first, but it’s not as though he only kept Simon on so he could… Because he wanted… No, his feelings for Simon have changed. Simon’s sure of it. He cares about Simon, doesn’t he? Why else would he have gone through all this trouble, put up with everything so far, if he didn’t?

He _knows_ Basil, now. He trusts him. But being apart from him like this…

He closes his eyes, but Niall’s words still haunt him. His knowledge of Basil, too. His _first hand experience._ Simon doesn’t want to believe what Niall was implying, but Niall seemed so smug, so sure of himself. Basil claims that Niall is merely an acquaintance, but if the things he claims are true…

Is that how Basil sees Simon, then? An acquaintance?

He presses his palms over his eyelids and tries to shove all these thoughts down where they can’t nag at him anymore. It would be so much easier if Basil were here. He knows that if he could see him, hold him, everything would be better.

He slips out of bed and out the door silently.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Basil hisses when Simon shows up at the door to his room in the dead of night. He looks past Simon, down the hall, to make sure no one is watching, and then pulls Simon into the room swiftly.

“I wanted to see you,” Simon says, crowding Basil against the door when it closes. “I missed you.”

Basil turns his head away. If Simon only knew how much he had missed him… But none of this will do them any good. Tomorrow they will sneak back into Mummers, to clear Simon’s name, and then he will be free to leave. To roam the countryside, helping out farmers and enrapturing their daughters. He’s a Nox, and it’s time he was able to live like one again.

“Baz…” Simon adds quietly, pushing his face closer to Basil’s. “Can we have this?”

 _What is “this”?_ Basil wants to ask. Can they have this moment? This night? What else is there, after tomorrow?

He nods, anyway.

Simon kisses the new scar on his cheek, cradling his head with both hands. Like Basil is something precious. _Delicate_. Not monstrous.

 _We can have this,_ Basil thinks. _For now_.

Simon leads Basil to the bed and lays him down, following closely after to kiss him deep. Longing, and aching. Like Simon knows this is the last time, too.

He’s slow to undress Basil, and even slower to undress himself, taking his time to kiss every inch of Basil’s skin as he bares it, before baring himself as well.

Basil kisses Simon like it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat, the last drink he’ll ever drink. And he wants to drink in all of it. No one’s ever made him feel the way Simon does, like he’ll lose himself completely if he lets go, if he lets himself give in. He’s never wanted to lose himself before…

Simon stops and holds himself above Basil, looking down at him fondly. He smiles a little. “You’re lovely,” he says, his voice soft yet scratchy. Basil reaches up for his mouth to kiss him again.

And again and again and again. He shivers under Simon’s touch, and presses against him more urgently.

“Simon,” he says, breathlessly. He lifts legs at either side of Simon’s waist and squeezes. “Will you…?”

Simon looks at him for a moment, a question on his face, and then runs a hand along one of Basil’s thighs and nods. “Show me,” he says, leaning down to kiss Basil’s neck.

Simon is careful with him, reverent, as Basil tells him what to do. Simon asks him what he needs, so Basil tells him. No one has ever asked him before.

The unintelligible closeness between them soon brings Basil to the edge, and clasps a hand over his mouth on instinct. But Simon takes his hand and holds it against the pillow, leaning down to kiss his cheek again.

“Let go,” Simon murmurs to him. “I’ve got you.”

And Basil loses himself completely.

* * *

There’s not much time to go over the plan again in the morning, but Simon more or less knows what he’s supposed to do. Really, it’s Basil who has the biggest role in this scheme; Simon just has to stay out of harm’s way. But before he can stay out, he has to get in.

Basil’s cousin, Dev, agreed to help them sneak in. He and Basil had come up with the idea yesterday while Niall was interrogating Simon, and Simon was a bit surprised by its simplicity. He assumed they would have to slink around among the shadows in the dead of night, and hope one of the guards was feeling particularly lazy. But they are just going to walk in, in broad daylight, pretending to be Dev’s servants.

They meet Dev just off the market square in Lower Watford, well before the sun reaches its peak for the day. He's waiting for them around the corner of a shop, with two large crates full of books at his feet. Most look old and are falling apart, pages slipping out of some. Simon wasn’t expecting the books, but that's fine. He knew there would have to be something for them to carry in for Dev. What really throws him off is the fact that Niall is also there, smirking at him.

“I thought Dev was supposed to get us in,” Simon growls when he stops in his tracks and grabs Basil’s arm.

“So did I,” Basil replies, setting his jaw.

They continue over to the two men waiting for them and Basil raises an eyebrow at his cousin.

“Care to explain?” he asks.

“Well, see—”

“It was my idea,” Niall cuts in. “Dev told me about your little plan, and while I applaud your audacity, I thought it to be rather short-sighted.”

“I see,” Basil says evenly. “And this is more far-sighted?”

“The guards would want to look inside the trunk,” Niall says. “See what sort of things Dev could possibly be bringing in that would require him to hire two grown men to help him carry it. Besides his own ego.”

“Oi!”

“Furthermore,” Niall continues, gesturing at Dev beside him, “nobody trusts Dev with anything. He speaks like a commoner, drinks like a fish, and gambles away his family’s fortune almost every night.”

“You’re one to talk, mate,” Dev argues, but he doesn’t really seem upset.

“Do you have a point?” Basil asks, clearly trying to mask his worry with impatience. “Or do you simply like the sound of your own voice?”

“Why not both?” Niall says, flashing him a grin. “My point, dear Basilton, is that anyone with an ounce of intelligence would see through your ruse almost immediately.”

“Have you got a better idea, then?” Simon asks, taking a menacing step forward.

“As I understand it, you need to reach Penelope Bunce’s rooms,” Niall says, unfazed.

“Yes…”

“Well, what better way into a woman’s rooms than with an enormous crate of books, or two?” He smirks again. “When that woman is Penelope Bunce.”

“We’re supposed to claim that Penelope requested these?” Basil says.

“No,” Niall says. “We’re going to claim that I did.”

* * *

Normally, carrying an enormous crate full of books up the steps to Upper Watford wouldn’t be that much of a strain for Simon. He’s strong and fit and had grown used to lugging things around for Basil. But after the past several days—and several nearly sleepless nights—his body is protesting. It doesn’t help that his shoulder is not quite fully healed yet. Basil doesn’t seem to be having as much difficulty, even though Simon knows he is also exhausted.

They follow behind Niall, keeping their hoods up and their heads down, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The last thing they need is someone recognizing one of them—particularly Basil—when they are this close to getting inside.

“Master Watson,” one of the guards at the gate says when they approach. He sounds confused. “H—have you business in the South Quarter today? We were not told that you would—”

Niall raises a hand to silence him. “This is not official business,” he says. “I’ve simply come bearing gifts for Penelope Bunce.” He takes a step aside and motions to the crates Simon and Basil are carrying, which Simon thinks is a risky move, drawing the guard’s attention right to them.

“Books, Master?” the guard says, peering over at one of the crates.

“Penelope is quite a scholar, as I’m sure everyone must know,” Niall says. “I thought she might enjoy these rare books I’ve collected in my travels, as a token.”

The guard stares at him blankly.

“Of my affection,” Niall adds.

The other guard, who has yet to speak, leans over to his colleague and whispers, “He’s trying to woo her. For courtship.”

The first guard blinks. “With… books?”

“The young lady in question loves to read,” Niall says. “I think these will impress her.”

“Ah, yes, very well,” the guard says. “Shall I send for someone to assist you?”

“That will not be necessary, I’ve hired these good men to help me. Honest pay for honest work, you know.”

“Of course.” The guard ducks his head courteously and steps aside to let them pass. “Best of luck, Master Watson.”

“Thank you,” Niall says, walking past him briskly, “but I do not need luck.”

* * *

Getting to Penelope’s rooms becomes increasingly difficult, once they make their way into the palace, and they run a greater risk of somebody recognizing them. The hoods that Niall procured for Simon and Basil before they arrived prove extremely useful on more than one occasion.

Penelope’s servant—although Penelope hates to call her that—opens the door to her rooms when Niall knocks. She looks surprised and terrified to see him; she must know who he is.

Niall leans against the doorframe with his forearm and smiles at her. “I’m here to see Penny,” he says, and Simon bristles at his use of such a familiar name with her. “Bearing gifts.”

“M-miss Bunce isn’t here right now,” the maidservant says. “She’s taking a walk in the gardens.”

“How about you go and fetch her, then,” Niall says, somewhat rudely, “and we’ll just take these books inside for her.”

“I don’t know if—”

“I hate to insist, but it is rather urgent,” he presses. “Therefore I must insist.”

She nods timidly and steps aside for him to enter. Simon and Basil follow, keeping their heads lowered beneath their hoods. “I’ll—I’ll fetch Miss Bunce,” she says. “Excuse me.”

Simon sets his crate of books on the floor by Penelope’s bookcase, although he isn’t sure if she is actually supposed to keep these. Basil sets his crate on top and whirls around on Niall.

“Could you be _slightly_ more of an arse?” Basil hisses at him. “Threatening a servant who looks like she’s afraid of her own shadow!”

Niall rolls his eyes and leisurely makes his way over to Penelope’s dressing table. He picks up a bottle but doesn’t take much interest in it. “I do what I have to do to get what I want,” he says. He looks at Basil. “You’re the same way, Basilton. You can’t deny that.”

“You mean to _take_ what you want.” Basil huffs and takes off his hood, tossing it to the floor.

“I’m helping you with all of _this_ , aren’t I?” Niall says as he picks up another small bottle. He smells it, grimaces, and sets it back down. Then he looks at Basil and smiles. “Out of the fondness of my heart.”

“Oh, get fucked!” Basil spits, and both Simon and Niall stare at him as though he’s grown an extra head.

“Basil—” Simon says, taking a step towards him, but Basil turns away and crosses to the other side of the room. Simon doesn’t know whether to follow him or let him have his space, so instead he stomps over to Niall, throwing off his own hood. “What is your issue with Basil?” he demands. “What has he ever done to you?”

Niall’s eyes go innocently wide. “Do you want a numbered list, or…?”

“Leave it be, Niall,” Basil says over his shoulder. “Snow hasn’t done anything.”

“Snow?” Niall asks. He looks over at Basil and then back at Simon. “I thought you were _Simon Salisbury_.”

“Er,” Simon says as Basil looks back at him as well. “Simon Snow Salisbury.”

“You told him your name?” Basil says.

“I—I didn’t know who he was at the time!” Simon explains, gesturing emphatically with his whole arm. “I assumed he was a friend of yours—I assumed you trusted him!”

“Come now, he does trust me,” Niall says, smiling. He faces Basil again. “Don’t you, Basilton?”

Basil folds his arms across his chest but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“You certainly trusted me enough to—”

Simon grabs the front of Niall’s jacket and pulls him down to eye level. “Leave him alone,” he growls.

“Simon, you don’t have to—”

“Niall Watson!” Penelope’s voice booms through the door before she’s even gotten it open. “How dare you come into my rooms and—” She stops as soon as she marches in and sees Simon, at Niall’s throat. “Snow!” she gasps.

Simon lets go of Niall just in time for Penelope to throw her arms around him for one of the most emphatic hugs of his life.

“Snow! Oh my stars!” she says, taking a step back to look at him, still holding his arms. “I thought—I thought something horrible had happened to you!”

“I am also fine, Penelope,” Basil says behind her, drily.

She turns and tilts her head at him, and Simon thinks she’s trying to decide if she wants to say something clever or sincere. She marches over to him, but instead of saying anything, she pulls him into a crushing hug as well.

“A pleasure to see you, as always, Penelope,” Niall says, leaning his hip against her dressing table. She glares at him over her shoulder.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing here,” she says to him, then looks at Simon. “Any of you. But… Oh, I’m just so relieved!”

“I must be on my way, in any case,” Niall adds. He pushes away from the table and walks past them, stopping next to Basil and leaning in to add, “Best of luck to all of you.” He pats Basil on the shoulder and heads for the door. “You’re going to need it.”

* * *

Simon tells Penelope about all that has happened— _most_ of what has happened, anyway—and she hangs onto every word. Basil explains his plan to prove the Mage has been lying to the Council, and clear Simon’s name for using magic. Simon’s real name.

“What can I do to help?” she asks.

“Just stay here and keep Simon hidden until I can get him a trial,” Basil says.

“What are you going to do?” Penelope says. “You need special permission to access the records, and that could take days—”

“Please do not worry about this, Penelope,” Basil says, placing both hands on her shoulders. “I will take care of everything.”

“What happens if someone sees you?” Simon asks him when he steps away toward the door. “Won’t they want to know where you’ve been, what happened to you?”

“I will handle it,” Basil assures him.

Simon rushes over to him and grabs his arm. “But what if—”

“Let go, Simon,” Basil says, putting his hand over Simon’s. He leans in to whisper in Simon’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

Hours pass with no word from Basil. Simon has been pacing around the room nonstop. Penelope tries to assure him that it’s fine, but she seems nervous as well.

After several more hours—and two extra dinners brought to her room, secretly, for Simon—Penelope offers to go looking for Basil, to find out what is taking him so long. Simon is hesitant to agree; he doesn’t really want Penelope getting mixed up in all of this, but they aren’t getting any answers sitting in her room.

Simon isn’t sure how long she is gone—one hour? Two?—but when she returns, she looks shaken and urgent. She closes her door, making sure that no one has seen Simon in her rooms, before turning towards him, and he meets her halfway.

“They’ve got Basil,” she says. She’s breathing hard, like she rushed back here to tell him. “He’s in his rooms, but—They are keeping him there, guarded. He’s being kept there until his trial!”

“ _Trial_?” Simon says, gripping Penelope’s shoulders to ground himself. “What’s he being tried for?”

“It’s the records,” she says. “He was caught searching them without a formal request.”

“And that warrants a _trial_?”

“Not usually, no.”

“This is the Mage,” Simon says, jutting his chin forward. “He’s had it in for Basil since the beginning, and he’s just using this as an excuse to delegitimize him.”

“Maybe so, but—”

“I have to help him,” he adds, but Penelope holds onto his wrists.

“There’s nothing you can do now, Sno— _Simon_ ,” she says, her eyes getting watery. “You’re going to have to run. If Basil couldn’t find the proof you need to clear your name, then there’s no chance for you here.”

“I’m not running, Penelope. I’m not leaving him!”

“He’ll be fine, please! You need to think about yourself now.”

“He won’t be fine, don’t you see?” he says, softening his grip on her shoulders. “The Mage is not going to relent, as long as he has the power. He has to be stopped or Basil will never be safe!”

“How are you going to stop him, Simon? You have nothing to give them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He swallows hard. “I have one thing to give them.”

* * *

Despite Penelope’s protests, Simon leaves her rooms and makes his way down the corridor. He walks right down the middle, his pace relaxed and easy, even though his heart is racing.

It doesn’t take long for a guard on patrol to spot him. Simon marches up to him, and the guard puts his hand over the handle of his sword.

“My name is Snow, I am Basil Pitch’s servant, and I would like to speak to the High Council,” he says, enunciating clearly.

The realization hits slowly, but when it does, the guard straightens his back. “Snow,” he says dutifully, “you are under arrest by the order of the High Council of Hellarium.” The volume of his voice alerts a couple other guards walking nearby, and they soon join him.

It doesn’t take three men to take Simon away. He doesn’t even try to resist.

 _Let go_ , he thinks to himself. And he does.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of truth, a desperate plea, and a wish fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading, I hope you enjoy the final chapter. ❤️

“Master Pitch is not seeing visitors at this time,” Basil hears the guard outside his rooms say.

“This is important!” says the woman’s voice, with a stubbornness that only means one thing. Penelope Bunce.

Basil stops pacing his room and goes to open the door. Penelope is just about to shout at the guard some more, but she startles when he appears.

“Basil!” she says. She looks even more distressed than before. “I need to talk to you!”

“Very well,” he says, and then looks at the guard blocking her way. “I’ve been ordered to remain in my rooms,” he says to him, “and here I intend to remain. I do not see how it makes any difference whether or not Miss Bunce wishes to speak to me in here.”

“We were instructed—”

“You were instructed to keep me from leaving until my trial,” he says more authoritatively. “If any other instructions have been made, then I will insist on speaking to my father. Is that what you would prefer?”

The guard’s nostrils flare, but he steps aside to let Penelope through. Basil leads her inside by the elbow and shuts the door.

“What’s wrong, Penelope?” he asks. Her eyes are wild and panicked.

“It’s Simon,” she says in a loud whisper. “Last night, he—He went and got himself arrested so he could have a trial with the Council.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He said that he was the one thing he had to offer them, in exchange for your freedom.”

“ _What_?”

“He didn’t think the Mage would ever let it go, that he would keep coming after you, and that he could convince the Council to hear the truth if he turned himself in.”

“That—That—Bull-headed—Insufferable—”

“He’s doing this for _you_ , Basil,” she says. “The man who toyed with him and humiliated him for months.” She softens her voice. “Why would he do that?”

Basil’s jaw clenches. “I don’t know,” he says.

“Do you even care?” she asks. “Do you care that he may have just sacrificed his life for you?”

“Of course I care!” Basil snaps. “Of course I—I never wanted any of this, Penelope! I never asked for him to come into my life and—And—“ He turns away and walks over to the lit fireplace, dragging his hands back through his hair. “Of course I care,” he says, softer, broken.

“They’re holding him in a cell,” Penelope says quietly. “He could be there for days, Basil. It isn’t as though they are going to push for a speedy trial for a _servant_.”

“He’s not—”

“I know,” she adds, stepping close and brushing him on the shoulder. “But they don’t see that, they don’t know who he really is. Who he is to you.”

Basil looks at her and frowns, and she takes his hand between hers.

“He did this for you, Basil,” she says. “What are you going to do for him?”

* * *

Simon is surprised when he is summoned for his trial after only one night. At least, he thinks it has only been one night. There is no sunlight down in the cells, and he hasn’t managed to sleep at all, but he was brought some sort of breakfast earlier.

Two guards flank him as they escort him through the palace and lead him to the High Council’s hall, where he will stand before the members of the Council, once again, and plead his case. He doesn’t know if there is any chance for him to escape conviction for his supposed crimes, but he has to try to free Basil. For good.

He comes to an abrupt halt as soon as he walks in and sees Basil standing before the Council already. One of the guards nudges him hard—in his bad shoulder—and he keeps moving.

* * *

Basil knew that the High Council would have to honour his request to be tried alongside Simon— _right away_ —but he is still relieved when Simon walks in. Although it’s painful to think about the circumstances of him being here, and what might happen to him next, it’s good to see him, whole.

“Snow,” the Mage beckons, directing Simon to take his place next to Basil. If they both reached their arms out, their fingertips might barely brush one another. So close and yet so far.

“It has come to my attention,” the Mage continues, “that the young Master Pitch has requested this trial on your behalf. It is highly unusual for a man of Mummers Palace to offer to share his trial with a servant, but his request has been granted.”

Simon nods solemnly.

“He’s not a servant,” Basil grumbles, loud enough to get everyone’s attention.

“You have not been asked any questions yet, Master Pitch,” the Mage says, “but if you wish to make a statement, you must speak up.”

“Simon,” Basil says angrily, “is not a servant.” There are a few hushed reactions from the other Council members. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

More whispers and confused expressions from the Council, but the Mage’s face remains stern.

“Are you speaking about Snow?” the Mage says, feigning curiosity. “He claimed to be a servant when he first arrived, did he not?”

Basil takes a deep breath. He knows what he has to do. “I demand a trial by Verithia.”

Gasps from members of the Council. Basil’s own father standing so quickly that his chair scrapes along the floor. The Mage looking furious. Basil takes a moment to be pleased with himself.

Almost no one demands a trial by Verithia, although it is every citizen’s right to do so. The Verithia compels anyone to whom it is administered to tell the truth when posed a direct question. However, the law in Hellarium is that it must also be administered to the one asking the questions.

Basil knows there are many things the Mage could ask him that could destroy him, but if there’s a chance that he can expose some of the Mage’s lies as well, it will be worth it.

At least then Simon would be alright.

The Mage strokes his beard as he ponders, and Basil starts to worry. The Mage does not look quite so furious any longer.

“Very well, Master Pitch. You may receive the Verithia,” the Mage finally announces. “As will your servant, Snow.”

Basil’s stomach drops.

“You will each be given a list of questions, decided by the High Council,” the Mage continues, “and you will interrogate each other.”

“That isn’t fair—” Basil demands, but Simon cuts him off.

“I’ll do it.”

* * *

The members of the Council retreat to discuss the matter privately and decide which questions shall be asked. Simon is slightly worried about what they might make him ask Basil, but he hopes that enough people on the Council respect Basil and the Pitch name to give him a fair trial. And to only ask relevant questions…

Chairs are brought in for Simon and Basil, and they sit facing each other. Simon thinks if they both leaned forward and reached their arms out, their fingertips might brush.

They aren’t allowed to speak while the Council deliberates, but Simon has a million of his own questions for Basil. Such as why he’s done any of this.

The Council members return to their seats, and two vials are brought forward—one for Simon and one for Basil. Simon takes his and looks at the green liquid inside. He takes a deep breath, hoping it will taste better than delhiid antidote, and tips the whole thing down his throat.

The lists of questions are brought out next, written on crisp parchment in neat lettering. He turns the parchment over. He doesn’t want to know the questions until he has to ask them. He doesn’t want to know how bad they might be.

“Master Pitch,” the Mage says, once everything is in order. “You may now ask Snow the questions you were given, in the order they were given. If you alter any of the questions, the testimony will be nullified. Do you understand?”

Basil clenches his jaw. He looks as though he is trying hard not to answer at all, but the Verithia must be compelling him already. “Yes!” he finally blurts out. “I understand.”

“Good,” the Mage says, and takes his seat. “You may proceed.”

Simon’s palms start to sweat as Basil looks over his questions.

“What is your full name?” Basil asks. Simon remembers catching a glimpse of this question at the top of his own list. He thinks it musts be a baseline question to test that the potion is working.

“Simon Snow Salisbury,” he says.

“Are you an unregistered mage or healer or practician of magic?”

“No,” Simon answers truthfully. “I am registered as a Nox Knight apprentice to use magic as it pertains to the duties of a Nox Knight.”

Basil closes his eyes for a moment before continuing. “Did you willfully deceive the council about your identity to avoid execution?”

Simon flinches, but he has no choice. “Yes,” he says.

“Did you kidnap the Pitch Heir?”

“No.”

“Do you now or have you ever desired or intended to harm the Pitch Heir?”

He squirms in his seat. “Yes!” he blurts out against his wishes. “A long time ago!” he adds. “When I thought him to be cruel.”

Basil avoids his eyes.

“But I no longer desire him any harm,” Simon continues. “He is not cruel, and I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Basil still doesn’t look at him, but he folds his parchment in half and then looks up at the Mage. “Those were all the questions,” he says, and the Mage nods.

“Snow,” the Mage says. “ _Simon_. You may proceed with your questions.”

Simon lifts the parchment and turns it over, trying not to crumple it with his shaking hands. “What is your full name?” he asks.

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” Basil replies, and Simon almost laughs at that.

“Why were you in the Council Records Hall without authorization?” Simon continues, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I was trying to find the registry that proves Simon is allowed to practice magic as a Nox Knight, so that he would not face punishment for his use of magic against the Deliterachne Hiid that attacked us.”

“Were you kidnapped by the servant Snow?”

Basil closes his eyes and takes a breath, as though he is infuriated that he has to answer such a question. “No,” he says flatly.

“Were you aware of Snow’s true identity before you disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“Were you harmed by Snow in any way?”

“No.”

Simon swallows. “Did you ever fear that Snow would harm you?”

Basil seems to struggle against his own need to answer truthfully. “Yes,” he says, clenching his hands into fists. He doesn’t elaborate.

Simon looks at the next question and stops. It is attached to the previous one. Simply: _“Why?”_

He doesn’t want to ask Basil that. He doesn’t want the potion to compel Basil to admit that he thought Simon would kill him for being a vampire, since he is a Nox. The Mage must have put this question here, knowing what it would mean for Basil to have to answer it. But nothing about it would make any of the other Council members suspicious.

“ _Simon_ ,” the Mage warns. “You must ask all the questions. As they are written.”

Simon squeezes his eyes shut and crushes the parchment in his fist. “No,” he says. “I’m not asking any more questions.”

“You must ask all the questions or the testimony will be nullified,” the Mage insists, raising his voice.

“No,” Simon repeats. He doesn’t care if it means that none of this will help him. He can’t put Basil in that position.

“ _Ask the question, Simon_ ,” the Mage insists.

It’s increasingly difficult for Simon to refuse, as the Verithia is meant to make him more compliant, but he scrunches up his face until he trusts himself to speak again. “No!” he says loudly. He tears the parchment into pieces and rises from his seat. “I’m not doing it!”

The Mage stands as well, hands pressed into the table in front of him as he leans forward. “ _Why are you protecting him?_ ” he bellows.

Simon freezes up. He’s been asked a direct question, and he has to answer honestly. He has no choice.

The rest of the Council members are on their feet, in a flurry around the Mage, telling him that his question was against the laws of the trial, but it doesn’t make a difference. Simon has to say it. He can’t hold it in any longer.

“ _Because I’m in love with him!_ ”

* * *

The silence that falls over the Council hall after Simon makes his declaration is deafening. Basil thinks he can almost hear his own heartbeat. Almost.

Before he has a chance to say anything to Simon, he’s being escorted out by a guard while the Council members gather in whispering clusters. He’s pleased to see that the Mage is also flanked by two guards, but he accidentally catches his father’s eye on his way out. He can’t tell what his father is thinking. Whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Or what he’s disappointed about, specifically.

Basil is taken back to his rooms and held there until the Council makes their decision. He doesn’t know what will happen regarding their testimony now. He also doesn’t know why Simon refused to ask the question, what it could have been.

He remembers all the anger and frustration radiating off Simon as he refused, as he kept refusing. Right up to the moment when he answered the Mage’s question.

Basil feels sick to his stomach. Hollow. Like his body is trying to digest itself from the inside out.

_“Because I’m in love with him!”_

It has to be true. Simon couldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true.

His stomach twists around itself.

He thinks back to his last night with Simon, how he knew it then. He could feel it to be true, though he didn’t dare let himself believe it. But he can no longer convince himself otherwise.

Simon Snow Salisbury is in love with him. Which will make it hurt all the more when Simon inevitably leaves. Because loving Basil has never been enough of a reason for people to stay. Not his mother. Not…

Basil sits on the hard floor, next to the fire, as he waits for news about his fate—and Simon’s.

When he is summoned to the Head of Council’s chambers to receive his verdict, he fears the worst. That the Mage has discarded all of their testimony, that Simon will be deemed a liar and a traitor, with Basil as his accomplice. The Mage would get everything he wants and Basil would be left with nothing.

But Simon… He can’t let this happen to Simon.

When he enters the Head of Council’s chambers, he’s not expecting the person he finds seated behind the large desk.

“Councilwoman Bunce,” he says with a courteous nod, and she motions for him to have a seat.

“Master Pitch,” she says, looking down at the parchment in front of her. “All charges against you have been lifted. You are a free citizen of Watford once again.”

Basil feels only slight relief over this news. If Mitali Bunce is here, in the Head of Council’s chambers, then the Mage must have been removed from his position. But Basil still doesn’t know what is going to happen to Simon.

“Thank you,” Basil says, lowering his head. “Is there—” he adds, but then stops himself.

“Do you have questions, Master Pitch?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Well, in that case—”

“What about Simon?” he blurts out, almost as though he were still being compelled by the Verithia, even though it has long since passed through his system. “His testimony, is it—”

She shakes her head. “The testimony was nullified,” she says. “None of the questions asked by you, by Simon Salisbury, or by the Mage can be used as evidence.” Another slight relief, that Simon’s answer to the Mage cannot somehow be used against him.

“Is that it, then?” he asks, frustrated, and she frowns at him curiously. “You know that Simon is not a servant, that he is registered to use magic. He told you himself while under the Verithia. You cannot simply ignore that.”

“Yes, we know,” she says, nodding solemnly. “We verified it in the Council Records, and used that evidence to clear those charges.”

“He—He’s been cleared?”

“For his use of magic,” she says. “But he was still captured in Terrada, he trained there—”

“The Mage is the one who sent him there!” Basil exclaims. “The Mage chose Simon, he told him to train there, and now he says that Simon is a traitor?”

“The law states that—”

“You make the law. You and the others on Council,” he says. “If the law is unjust, you must change it.”

Councilwoman Bunce sighs. “I would if I could, truly,” she says, folding her hands in front of her, “but I only have one vote, the same as everyone else on Council. I cannot single-handedly change the law.”

“Would you at least consider bringing it to a vote?” he asks.

“Yes, but it would take weeks to—”

“A man’s life is at stake here! A man who has done nothing but protect the people of this country!”

“I could call an emergency vote,” she says, “but I cannot guarantee that you will like the result.”

“Call the vote,” Basil says. “Please.”

* * *

When Basil marches up to his father’s chambers, the guard keeping watch at the door is wary of him.

“I need to speak with my father,” he says, growing more agitated by the minute.

“He has a lot of work today,” the guard says. “He asked not to be disturbed.”

“Surely he will make an exception for his own son.”

The guard looks hesitant.

“Surely,” Basil says again, more forcefully this time, “he will not be pleased to know that his own son, and Heir to the House of Pitch, has been refused entry to speak with him on a matter of life or death.”

The guard nods and starts to open the door, but Basil swings it open the rest of the way and strides through.

“Basilton,” his father says, glancing up at him briefly. “Can this wait? I am extremely busy.”

“No, this cannot wait, father,” Basil says. His father looks up from the parchment in front of him and gives Basil a hard stare. “There is going to be a vote. On the treason laws. On whether or not those who lived in Terrada when our countries were at peace should be considered traitors now.”

“Basilton…”

“I need you to vote to change these laws,” he continues. “And I need help convincing the others—“

“ _Basilton_ ,” his father repeats, shaking his head. “I know why you are doing this.”

“I am doing this because the law is absurd and hypocritical, and completely unjust to those it seeks to punish.”

“It’s because of what that boy said,” his father says. “Basilton, you cannot let people get inside your head—“

“This is not about what he did or did not say,” Basil insists. “It changes nothing about the way I feel. This law is cruel and unnecessary—“

“You are to take over this seat in less than six months, Basilton,” his father says. “Perhaps you can bring up this issue again when—”

“We can’t wait six months! You must do this _now._ There is no more time. We cannot let another soul suffer because of this.”

“Voting now will not do the boy any good,” he says. “I know how others on the Council are likely to vote, and you do not have the numbers on your side. This could take months of debate, son.”

“Then convince the others!”

“You know I do not have time for that sort of thing.”

“This is a man’s _life_ on the line here—

“This is simply another boy who has tricked you into forgetting about your obligations to this country, to your family,” his father says, raising his voice. “I expect better from you, Basilton.”

Basil stares at his father until his rage threatens to cloud his vision. “And I expected better from you.”

* * *

Basil has spent the entire afternoon trying to track down members of the Council and plead with them to vote, but so far he has only managed to find two of them, one of whom was already firmly in support of changing the law, and therefore Basil’s efforts to convince him were wholly unnecessary.

He decides to take a moment to rest in the courtyard as he considers his next moves. He needs at least six Council members on his side, and as of yet he is only certain about two of them. Or perhaps one and a half. (And he has absolutely no idea about his father, but he is not hopeful.)

Even if Agatha succeeds in persuading her father, as Basil begged of her when he went looking for him, that still only brings the number of supporters to a possible three. And Mitali Bunce has already called the emergency vote for tomorrow. Basil is running out of time.

“I hear someone has been busy,” says a voice somewhere behind him.

He looks over his shoulder to find Niall heading towards him, and he sighs inwardly. Niall is possibly the last person he wishes to see right now.

“I would ask what you are doing here,” Basil says, “but I doubt you would be honest with me, in any case.”

“Basilton,” Niall says, taking a seat on the bench next to him. He stretches his arms along the back of it and crosses one leg over the other. “You wound me.”

“If only.”

Niall laughs, and his hand accidentally bumps against Basil’s shoulder. “I was simply curious as to why you’ve been hunting down and harassing Councilmen all day,” he says.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Philippa Stainton,” he replies. “You know how she loves to gossip. You could not shut that girl up if you paid her.” He chuckles. “She told me you came by to see her father but he was out, and you were very insistent about speaking with him. Then she saw you knocking on Wellbelove’s door.”

“What does it matter to you?” Basil asks.

“You know me. _Political intrigue_ ,” Niall says. “I cannot help but be curious, Basilton.”

“Right,” Basil scoffs. “You always have been curious, haven’t you?” Niall’s hand bumps his shoulder again, and he no longer thinks it is an accident.

“I thought maybe I could help you,” Niall adds. “My father is also on the Council, as you know.”

“I am well aware.”

“I have many other connections, too, of course,” he continues. “If I knew what it was you wanted… Perhaps I could obtain it for you.”

Basil gives him a sidelong look. “And why would you do that?”

Niall smiles at him, and it’s one of his rare smiles. The ones that almost seem sincere—to those who do not know him very well. “Out of the fondness of my heart, _Basil_ ,” he says, stroking his knuckles over the back of Basil’s shoulder. Basil shakes him off.

“The only fondness you have in your heart is for yourself,” Basil says.

“Perhaps,” Niall says. “But it pains me to see you this… distraught.”

“I’m sure it does, Niall.”

“Is this about your servant friend?”

“Don’t call him that,” Basil snaps.

“What? Your friend?”

“My _servant_.”

“He was, though. For a time. He served you. Obedient and dutiful. Attending to your wants and whims.”

“Don’t.”

“I have always stood up for you, Basilton,” Niall continues. “When people would talk, when they would whisper. Whenever your manservant was more eye-catching than competent. Idle gossip, I said. Baseless speculation. Basilton would never.”

“Stop it.”

“He would never _lie_ with a servant. No! He only lets proper noblemen fuck him—”

Basil turns and slams his forearm into Niall’s chest, pinning him against the stone pillar behind him. “What do you want from me?” he growls.

Niall blinks at him. “I told you, I want to help.”

“I know you, Niall,” Basil says. “Too well. I know you will only help if you can get something in return.”

“Can my dear friend’s joy and happiness not be a reward in and of itself?”

“Have you ever spoken an honest word in your life?”

“I have, actually.”

“Another lie.” Basil backs off anyway. Fighting with Niall will not get him anywhere.

“I am speaking the truth now, Basil,” Niall says. “I want you to be happy.”

Basil turns his head away, unable to look at him without anger burning through him. For several moments, neither of them says anything. Then Niall stands.

“Goodnight, then, Basilton,” Niall says to him gently. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

* * *

When Simon is finally retrieved from his cell and called into the Head of Council’s chambers, he is tired and aching, and wants his punishment, whatever it may be, to be enacted quickly. For he knows that he must have been found guilty. He would not have been left to rot down there for so many nights had they any intention to free him.

He is surprised to find that Penelope’s mother, Mitali Bunce, is now the Head of Council, but he is not so idealistic as to assume this means he is safe. She never did like that her daughter seemed to have formed some sort of friendship with him, or with Basil. She thought they would only bring Penelope trouble.

But when Councilwoman Bunce tells him that his charges have been reversed, he takes little comfort in it. He is free now, he knows this. But what does that mean? He cannot stay in Mummers Palace if he does not work here. He’ll most likely be escorted directly to the gates. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be allowed to say goodbye…

“Furthermore,” the Head of Council adds, drawing Simon out of his spiralling thoughts, “on behalf of the High Council and the country of Hellarium, I formally request you, Simon Salisbury, to serve as a Nox Knight of Mummers Palace, to protect its walls and the people within from the evils that lurk without.”

“You… want me to be a palace Nox?” he asks, blinking in disbelief. “Why?”

“You have proven yourself capable and honourable in fulfilling your duties,” she says.

Simon doesn’t know what to say, so he simply nods and thanks her before he is escorted to her door. And there, he is let go.

* * *

Simon makes his way to Basil’s rooms immediately, to tell him of this strange turn of events. He still doesn’t believe it. Feels as though any moment he could wake from this dream and find himself lying on a cold stone floor, still locked in his cell.

When Simon enters, he sees Basil sitting on the same bench as the first time he saw him, reading. It’s almost as if nothing has changed. But when he looks up at Simon, Simon knows that things are different now.

“Simon,” he says, like he is surprised to see him.

“I am once again a free man,” Simon says, opening his arms at his sides, and Basil stands to meet him. Simon wants to pull him into his arms and hold him all night, but he isn’t sure that is what Basil wants. “And I’m a palace Nox, now,” he adds.

Basil nods. “I know. The Council asked to speak with me,” he says. “They wanted to know what happened with the delhiid, what happened after.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That you are a strong and brave Knight willing to put himself in harm’s way to defend the people who need him,” Basil says.

Simon wants to be happy about this, but Basil is still standing too far away. He isn’t trying to close the distance between them.

“Why did they want to know?” he asks, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“It seems that someone convinced them to listen to the whole story,” Basil says, lowering his gaze.

“Who?”

“Presumably the same person who managed to convince all the Council members to unanimously vote to overturn the treason laws about those found in Terrada,” he says, looking up at Simon again. “Someone with a lot of influence.”

“You?” Simon asks, eyebrows raised.

Basil shakes his head. “Someone with far greater influence,” he says. “Whose name carries even more weight than Pitch.”

“You mean…?”

“I have to assume so,” Basil says. “But it’s not important now. You’ve got what you deserve, that’s all that matters.”

“Right,” Simon says with a solemn nod. “I… I suppose I should apologize, though.”

“What for?”

“For what I said. At the trial. When the Mage asked, I—I couldn’t—”

“Simon,” Basil says softly, taking a step forward.

“It was the wrong way to say it, the wrong place,” Simon continues. “And—And—You’re probably uncomfortable with me now because of it, so I understand if—”

“ _Simon_.”

“If you want me to leave for good, because I know we never said that we would—”

Basil steps close enough to put and hand on Simon’s arm and squeezes it. “Simon,” he says. “You’re a fool if you think I could ever want you to leave.”

Before Simon can respond, Basil kisses him, and all the tension in Simon’s shoulders releases. He lets Basil wrap him in his arms and take him away.

“But—” Simon manages to say when he pauses to take a breath. “You don’t mind… That I’m in love with you?”

“You might even say I prefer it,” Basil says, and kisses him on the cheek, carefully and precisely. Simon thinks he has a mole there. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Simon.”

“Oh,” Simon breathes as Basil kisses his neck.

“A long time.”

* * *

Basil still remembers the first time he saw Simon. Years ago.

Young men from around the country, training to be Nox Knights, were gathered at Mummers Palace to compete for a small handful of highly coveted apprenticeship spots. Basil would watch their fights on occasion, if he was particularly bored, but he never really paid much mind to them.

One fight, however…

The victor was standing above his defeated opponent, positively glowing with pride as the audience cheered. And Basil was captivated. It wasn’t just the broad shoulders or the golden bronze hair or the smile that could light up the sun; it was the fact that this young man—with his skilled swordsmanship and quick reflexes and a thin red stripe down his neck from his last fight—reached out his hand and helped his opponent get back on his feet.

Basil had never seen anything like it. He had never seen a competitor willingly share his moment of victory with his own opponent.

The announcer declared the winner: _Simon Salisbury_.

If it was possible, the young man— _Simon_ —seemed to glow even brighter at that.

Basil could not stop himself from staring, not even when Simon’s eyes roamed over the crowd and stopped when they caught his. It was only for a second, a beat, but Simon’s smile grew wider and Basil’s heart fluttered in his chest. But the moment ended quickly, and Simon continued to look all around him, grinning, taking in all the glory. But Basil could not tear himself away.

“I’ve got you,” Basil says quietly as his lips brush over Simon’s neck.

 _At last_.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr, [f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com/), to see the art that goes with each chapter, find out about updates and previews, and other nonsense.


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